tnutlilit!iii!<iii{ 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

University  of  California. 


Class 


OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


€/  J^^/^6^^/l 


THE    O'DONOGHUE; 

ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 


BY 

CHAELES  LEVER. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS   BY  PHIZ. 


BOSTON: 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY 

1907. 


Copt/right,  1894, 
By  Little,  Brown,  and  Company. 


Mnibersitp  tresis  t 

John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge.  U.S.A. 


To  JOHIT  WILSON,  Esq., 

PROFESSOR   OF    MORAL    PHILOSOPHY    IN    THE    UNIVERSITY 
OF    EDINBURGH,    ETC. 


Dear  Sir,  —  It  is  but  seldom  that  the  few  lines  of  a  dedi- 
cation can  give  the  pleasure  I  now  feel  in  availing  myself  of 
your  kind  permission  to  inscribe  this  volume  to  you.  As  a  boy,, 
the  greatest  happiness  of  my  life  was  in  your  writings ;  and 
among  all  my  faults  and  failures,  I  can  trace  not  one  to  your 
influence,  while,  if  I  have  ever  been  momentarily  successful  in 
upholding  the  right,  and  denouncing  the  wrong,  I  owe  more  of 
the  spirit  that  suggested  the  effort  to  yourself  than  to  any  other 
man  breathing. 

With  my  sincerest  respects,  and,  if  I  dared,  I  should  say 
with  my  warmest  regards, 

I  am,  yours  truly, 

CHARLES  LEVER. 

Carlsbuhe,  October  18, 1845. 


Oil 


193076 


THE 

'JNIVERSITY 

OF 

ORNVhs 


PREFACE. 


It  was  in  wandering  through  the  south  of  Ireland 
1  came  to  visit  the  wild  valley  of  Glenflesk,  —  a  scene 
of  loneliness  and  desolation,  with  picturesque  beauty 
I  have  never  seen  surpassed.  The  only  living  creature 
I  met  for  miles  of  the  way  was  a  very  old  man,  whose 
dress  and  look  bespoke  extreme  poverty,  but  who,  on 
talking  with  him,  I  discovered  to  be  the  owner  of  four 
cows  that  were  grazing  on  the  rocky  sides  of  the  cliff. 
He  had  come  some  miles,  he  told  me,  to  give  the  cows 
the  spare  herbage  that  cropped  up  amidst  the  granite 
bowlders.  As  I  had  seen  no  house  nor  trace  of  habita- 
tion as  I  came  along,  I  was  curious  to  know  where  he 
lived ;  but  his  answer,  as  he  pointed  to  the  mountain, 
was,  ''  There,  alone,"  and  this  with  evident  unwilling- 
ness to  be  more  freely  communicative. 

Though  not  caring  to  be  interrogated,  nor,  like  most 
Irish  peasants,  much  disposed  to  have  a  talk  with  a 
stranger,  he  made  no  scruple  to  ask  for  alms,  and 
pleaded  his  wretched  rags  —  and  they  were  very  miser- 
able —  as  a  proof  of  his  poverty.  I  did  not  think  that 
the  pittance  I  gave  him  exactly  warranted  me  in  ask- 
ing how  the  owner  of  the  cows  we  saw  near  us  could 
be  in  that  condition    of  want  he  represented ;    at  all 


Viil  PREFACE. 

events,  I  preferred  not  to  dash  the  pleasure  I  was  giv- 
ing him  by  the  question.  We  parted,  therefore,  on  good 
terms;  but  some  miles  farther  on  in  the  Glen  I  learned 
from  a  woman  who  was  "  beelling "  her  clothes  in  the 
river  that  "  ould  Mat,"  as  she  called  him,  was  one  of 
the  most  well-to-do  farmers  in  that  part  of  the  county, 
that  he  had  given  his  daughters,  of  whom  he  had  sev- 
eral, good  marriage  portions,  and  that  his  son  was  a 
thriving  attorney  in  the  town  of  Tralee.  "  Maybe, 
yer  honer's  heard  of  him,"  said  the  woman,  —  "Tim 
O'Donoghue." 

It  was  no  new  thing  to  me  to  know  the  Irish  peasant 
in  his  character  of  a  hoarder  and  a  saver.  There  is 
no  one  trait  so  indicative  of  the  Celt  as  acquisitiveness, 
nor  does  Eastern  story  contain  a  man  more  given  to  the 
castle-building  that  grows  out  of  some  secret  hoard  — 
however  small  —  than  Paddy.  He  is  to  add  half  an 
acre  to  his  potato  garden,  or  to  buy  another  pig,  or  to 
send  the  "  gossoon  "  to  a  school  in  the  town,  or  to  pay  his 
passage  to  New  York.  This  tendency  to  construct  a 
future,  so  strong  in  the  Irish  nature,  has  its  rise  in  a 
great  reliance  on  what  he  feels  to  be  the  goodness  of 
God  ;  a  firm  conviction  that  all  his  struggles  are  watched 
and  cared  for,  and  that  every  little  turn  of  good  fortune 
has  been  given  him  by  some  especial  favor,  lies  deep 
in  his  nature,  and  suggests  an  amount  of  hope  to  him 
which  a  less  sanguine  spirit  could  never  have  conceived. 

While  I  thought  over  the  endless  contrarieties  of  this 
mysterious  national  character,  where  good  and  evil  eter- 
nally lay  side  by  side,  I  wondered  within  myself  whether 
the  new  civilization  of  later  years  was  likely  to  be  suc- 
cessful in  dealing  with  men  whose  temperaments  and 
manners  were  so  unlike  the  English,  or  were  we  right 
in  extin<ruishing  the  old  feudalism  that  bound  the  peas« 


PREFACE.  ix 

ant  to  the  landlord  before  we  had  prepared  each  for 
the  new  relations  of  mere  gain  and  loss  that  were  in 
future  to  subsist  between  them  ? 

Between  the  great  families  —  the  old  houses  of  the 
land  and  the  present  race  of  proprietors  —  there  lay  a 
couple  of  generations  of  men  who,  with  all  the  tradi- 
tions and  many  of  the  pretensions  of  birth  and  fortune, 
had  really  become  in  ideas,  modes  of  life,  and  habits, 
very  little  above  the  peasantry  around  them.  They  in- 
habited, it  is  true,  the  "  great  house,"  and  they  were  in 
name  the  owners  of  the  soil ;  but,  crippled  by  debt  and 
overborne  by  mortgages,  they  subsisted  in  a  shifty  con- 
flict with  their  creditors,  rack-renting  their  miserable 
tenants  to  maintain  it.  Survivors  of  everything  but 
pride  of  family,  they  stood  there  like  the  stumps,  black- 
ened and  charred,  the  last  remnants  of  a  burnt  forest, 
their  proportions  attesting  the  noble  growth  that  had 
preceded  them. 

What  would  the  descendants  of  these  men  prove 
when,  destitute  of  fortune  and  helpless,  they  were 
thrown  upon  a  world  that  actually  regarded  them  as 
blamable  for  the  unhappy  condition  of  Ireland  ?  Would 
they  stand  by  "  their  order  "  in  so  far  as  to  adhere  to 
the  cause  of  the  gentry  ?  or  would  they  share  the  feel- 
ings of  the  peasant  to  whose  lot  they  had  been  reduced, 
and  charging  on  the  Saxon  the  reverses  of  their  for- 
tune, stand  forth  as  rebels  to  England  ? 

Here  was  much  for  speculation,  and  something  for 
story.  For  an  opening  scene  what  could  I  desire  finer 
than  the  gloomy  grandeur  and  the  rugged  desolation 
of  Glenflesk  ;  and  if  some  patches  of  bright  verdure  here 
and  there  gleamed  amidst  the  barrenness,  —  if  a  stray 
sunlight  lit  up  the  granite  cliffs  and  made  the  heather 
glow, —  might  there  not  be  certain  reliefs  of  human  ten- 


X  PREFACE. 

derness  and  love  to  show  that  no  scene  in  which  man 
has  a  part  is  utterly  destitute  of  those  affections  whose 
home  is  the  heart  ?  I  had  now  got  my  theme  and  my 
locality.  For  my  name  I  took  the  O'Donoghue  :  it  had 
become  associated  in  my  mind  with  Glenflesk,  and  would 
not  be  separated  from  it. 

Here,  then,  in  one  word,  is  the  history  of  this  book. 
If  the  performance  bears  but  slight  relation  to  the  in- 
tention, —  if,  indeed,  my  story  seems  to  have  little  refer- 
ence to  what  suggested  it,  —  it  will  be  only  another 
instance  of  a  waywardness  which  has  beset  me  through 
life,  and  left  me  never  sure  when  I  started  for  Xorwaj 
that  I  might  not  find  myself  in  Naples. 

It  is  not  necessary,  perhaps,  for  me  to  say  that  no 
character  in  this  tale  was  drawn  from  a  model.  I  be- 
gan the  story,  in  so  far  as  a  few  pages  went,  at  a  little 
inn  at  Killarney,  and  I  believe  I  stole  the  name  of  Kerry 
O'Leary  from  one  of  the  boatmen  on  the  lake ;  but,  so 
far  as  I  am  aware,  it  is  the  only  theft  in  the  book.  I 
believe  that  the  very  crude  notions  of  an  English  tour- 
ist  for  the  betterment  of  Ireland,  and  some  exceedingly 
absurd  comments  he  made  me  on  the  habits  of  people 
which  an  acquaintanceship  of  three  weeks  enabled  him 
to  pronounce  on,  provoked  me  to  draw  the  character 
of  Sir  Marmaduke  ;  but  I  can  declare  that  the  traveller 
aforesaid  only  acted  as  tinder  to  a  mine  long  pre- 
pared, and  afforded  me  a  long-sought-for  opportunity, 
not  for  exposing,  for  I  did  not  go  that  far,  but  for 
touching  on  the  consummate  effrontery  with  which  a 
mere  passing  stranger  can  settle  the  difficulties  and  de- 
termine the  remedies  for  a  country  in  which  the  resi- 
dent sits  down  overwhelmed  by  the  amount,  and  utterly 
despairing  of  a  solution. 

I  have  elsewhere  recorded  that  I  have  been  blamed 


PREFACE.  Xi 

for  the  fate  I  reserved  for  Kate  O'Donoghue,  and  that  she 
deserved  something  better  than  to  have  her  future 
Hnked  to  one  who  was  so  unworthy  of  her  in  many 
ways.  Till  I  re-read  the  story  after  a  long  lapse  of 
years,  I  had  believed  that  this  charge  was  better  founded 
than  I  am  now  disposed  to  think  it.  First  of  all,  judging 
from  an  Irish  point  of  view,  I  do  not  consent  to  regard 
Mark  O'Donoghue  as  a  bad  fellow.  The  greater  num- 
ber of  his  faults  were  the  results  of  neglected  training, 
irregular  —  almost  utter  want  of  —  education,  and  the 
false  position  of  an  heir  to  a  property  so  swamped  by 
debt  as  to  be  valueless.  I  will  not  say  these  are  the  in- 
gredients which  go  to  the  formation  of  a  very  regular 
life  or  a  very  perfect  husband,  but  they  might  all  of 
them  have  made  a  worse  character  than  Mark's  if  he 
had  not  possessed  some  very  sterling  qualities  as  a 
counterbalance.  Secondly,  I  am  not  of  those  who  think 
that  the  married  life  of  a  man  is  but  the  second  volume 
of  his  bachelor  existence.  I  rather  incline  to  believe 
that  he  starts  afresh  in  life  under  circumstances  very 
favorable  to  the  development  of  whatever  is  best,  and 
to  the  extinguishment  of  what  is  worst,  in  him.  That 
is,  of  course,  where  he  marries  well,  and  where  he  allies 
himself  to  qualities  of  temper  and  tastes  which  will 
serve  as  the  complement  or,  at  times,  the  correctives 
of  his  own.  Now,  Kate  O'Donoghue  would  instance  what 
I  mean  in  this  case. 

Then  I  keep  my  best  reason  for  the  last,  —  they  liked 
each  other :  this,  if  not  a  guarantee  for  their  future 
happiness,  is  still  the  best '^  martingale"  the  game  of 
marriage  admits  of. 

I  am  free  to  own  that  the  book  I  had  in  my  head  to 
write  was  a  far  better  one  than  I  have  committed  to 
paper ;  but  as  that  is  a  sort  of  event  that  has  happened 


xii  PREFACE. 

to  better  men  than  myself,  I  bear  it  as  one  of  the  acci- 
dents that  authorship  is  heir  to.  At  all  events,  my 
Public  received  it  with  favor,  and  I  can  now — aftei 
an  interval  of  close  on  thirty  years  —  recall  with  warm 
gratitude  the  reception  it  met  with. 

A  French  critic  —  one  far  too  able  to  have  his  dicta 
lightly  despised  —  has  sneered  at  my  making  a  poor 
ignorant  peasant  child  find  pleasure  in  the  resonance  of 
a  Homeric  verse  ;  but  I  could  tell  him  of  barefooted  boys 
in  the  south,  running  errands  for  a  scanty  subsistence, 
with  a  knowledge  of  classical  literature  which  would 
puzzle  many  a  gowned  student  to  cope  with.  If  the 
improbabilities  of  this  volume  went  no  further  than 
this,  it  would  have  been  worthy  of  the  reader's  atten- 
tion, and  far  more  grateful  to  the  conscience  of  the 
author. 

CHARLES  LEVER. 

Tbieste,  1872. 


CONTENTS. 


Chaptss  Pags 

I.  Glenflesk 1 

II.  The  Wayside  Inn 7 

III.  The  "  Cottage  and  the  Castle  " 15 

rV.  Kerry  O'Leary 31 

V.  Impressions  of  Ireland 41 

VI.  "The  Black  Valley" 51 

VII.  Sir  Archy's  Temper  Tried 63 

VIII.  The  House  of  Sickness 75 

IX.  A  Doctor's  Visit 83 

X.  An  Evening  at  "Mary"  M'Kelly's    ....  92 

XI.  Mistakes  on  All  Sides Ill 

XII.  The  Glen  at  Midnight 124 

XIII.  "The  Guardsman*' 135 

XIV.  The  Comments  on  a  Hurried  Departure       .  145 
XV.  Some  of  the  Pleasures  of  Property      .     .     .  153 

XVI.  The  Foreign  Letter 166 

XVII.  Kate  O'Donoghue     .     .         177 

XVin.  A  Hasty  Pledge 186 

XIX.  A  Diplomatist  Defeated 192 

XX.  Temptation  in  a  Weak  Hour 206 

XXI,  The  Return  of  the  Envoy 216 

XXII.  A  Morning  Visit 222 

XXIII.  Some  Opposite  Traits  of  Character      .     .     .  230 

XXIV.  A  Walk  by  Moonlight 246 

XXV.  A  Day  of  Difficult  Negotiations     ....  251 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


Chaptee  Page 

XXVI.     A  Last  Evening  at  Home 262 

XXVII.     A  Supper  Party 272 

XXVIII.     The  Capital  and  its  Pleasures 286 

XXIX.     First  Impressions 300 

XXX.  Old  Characters  with  New  Faces        .    .     .  308 

XXXI.  Some  Hints  about  Harry  Talbot  ....  316 

XXXII.     A  Presage  of  Danger 327 

XXXIII.    The  St.  Patrick's  Ball 333 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 
Volume  One. 


3£tcf)mg0. 


PAGB 


The  Reckoning Frontispiece 

Roach's  Conveniency 148 

Good  Night! 270 

Illustrations  in  t^e  Eeit. 

A  Fireside  Group 21 

Sir  Archy  and  the  Beggars 67 

Kenny  O'Leary  reading  the  News  by  Deputy  ...  77 

Terry,  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Sybella 114 

Sir  Archy  in  a  Dilemma 125 

Frederick  and  Mark 197 

The  Cavern 213 

]\Iark  drawing  a  Cork 276 

The  Student 297 

Mark's  Exit  from  the  Ball 343 

The  Paper 350 


'^  OF    THE 

JNIVERSITY 


THE  O'DONOGHUE: 

A  TALE  OF  IRELAND   FIFTY  YEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTER  I. 


GLENFLESK. 


In  that  wild  and  picturesque  valley  which  winds  its  way 
between  the  town  of  Macroom  and  Bantry  Bay,  and  goes  by 
the  name  of  Glenflesk,  the  character  of  Irish  scenery  is  per- 
haps more  perfectly  displayed  than  in  any  other  tract  of  the 
same  extent  in  the  island.  The  mountains,  rugged  and 
broken,  are  singularly  fanciful  in  their  outline ;  their  sides  a 
mingled  mass  of  granite  and  straggling  herbage,  where  the 
deepest  green  and  the  red  purple  of  the  heath-bell  are  blended 
harmoniously  together.  The  valley  beneath,  alternately 
widening  and  narrowing,  presents  one  rich  meadow  tract, 
watered  by  a  deep  and  rapid  stream,  fed  by  a  thousand  rills 
that  come  tumbling  and  foaming  down  the  mountain-sides, 
and  to  the  traveller  are  seen  like  white  streaks  marking  the 
dark  surface  of  the  precipice.  Scarcely  a  hut  is  to  be  seen 
for  miles  of  this  lonely  glen,  and  save  for  the  herds  of  cattle 
and  the  flocks  of  sheep  here  and  there  to  be  descried,  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  spot  had  been  forgotten  by  man,  and 
left  to  sleep  in  its  own  gloomy  desolation.  The  river  itself 
has  a  character  of  wildness  all  its  own,  —  now  brawling  over 
rugged  rocks ;  now  foaming  between  high  and  narrow  sides, 
abrupt  as  walls,  sometimes  flowing  over  a  ledge  of  granite, 
without  a  ripple  on  the  surface ;  then  plunging  madly  into 
some  dark  abyss,  to  emerge  again  lower  down  the  valley  in 

VOL.   I.  —  1 


2  THE   O'DOXOGmjE. 

one  troubled  sea  of  foam  and  spray :  its  dull  roar  the  only 
voice  that  echoes  in  the  mountain  gorge. 

Even  where  the  humble  roof  of  a  solitary  cabin  can  be 
seen,  the  aspect  of  habitation  rather  heightens  than  dimin- 
ishes the  feeling  of  loneliness  and  desolation  around.  The 
thought  of  poverty  enduring  its  privations  unseen  and  un- 
known, without  an  eye  to  mark  its  struggles,  or  a  heart  to 
console  its  griefs,  comes  mournfully  on  the  mind,  and  one 
wonders  what  manner  of  man  he  can  be  who  has  fixed  his 
dwelling  in  such  solitude. 

In  vain  the  eye  ranges  to  catch  sight  of  one  human  being, 
save  that  dark  speck  be  such  which  crowns  the  cliff,  and 
stands  out  from  the  clear  sky  behind.  Yes,  it  is  a  child 
watching  the  goats  that  are  browsing  along  the  mountain, 
and  as  you  look,  the  swooping  mist  has  hidden  him  from 
your  view.  Life  of  dreariness  and  gloom !  What  sad  and 
melancholy  thoughts  must  be  his  companions,  who  spends 
the  livelong  day  on  these  wild  heaths,  his  eye  resting  on  the 
trackless  waste  where  no  fellow-creature  moves !  how  many 
a  mournful  dream  will  pass  over  his  mind !  what  fearful 
superstitions  will  creep  in  upon  his  imagination,  giving  form 
and  shape  to  the  flitting  clouds,  and  making  the  dark 
shadows,  as  they  pass,  seem  things  of  life  and  substance. 

Poor  child  of  sorrow !  How  destiny  has  marked  you  for 
misery  !  For  you  no  childish  gambols  in  the  sun  —  no  gay 
playfellow  —  no  paddling  in  the  running  stream,  that  steals 
along  bright  and  glittering,  like  happy  infancy  —  no  budding 
sense  of  a  fair  world,  opening  in  gladness,  but  all  a  dreary 
waste,  the  weariness  of  age  bound  up  with  the  terrors  of 
childhood. 

The  sun  was  just  setting  on  a  mellow  evening,  late  in  the 
autumn  of  a  year  towards  the  close  of  the  last  century,  as  a 
solitary  traveller  sat  down  to  rest  himself  on  one  of  the  large 
rocks  by  the  roadside ;  divesting  himself  of  his  gun  and 
shot-pouch,  he  lay  carelessly  at  his  length,  and  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  the  light  breeze  which  came  up  the  valley. 

He  was  a  young  and  powerfully  built  man,  whose  well- 
knit  frame  and  muscular  limbs  showed  how  much  habitual 
exercise  had  contributed  to  make  the  steepest  paths  of  the 
mountain  a  task  of  ease  to  him.  He  was  scarcely  above  the 
middle  height,  but  with  remarkable  breadth  of  chest,  and 


GLENFLESK.  3 

that  squareness  of  proportion  which  indicates  considerable 
physical  strength ;  his  countenance,  except  for  a  look  of 
utter  listlessness  and  vacuity,  had  been  pleasing ;  the  eyes 
were  large  and  full,  and  of  the  deep  gray  which  simulates 
blue ;  the  nose  large  and  well  formed ;  the  mouth  alone  was 
unprepossessing  —  the  expression  it  wore  was  of  ill-humor 
and  discontent ;  and  this  character  seemed  so  habitual  that 
even  as  he  sat  thus  alone  and  in  solitude  the  curl  of  the  upper 
lip  betrayed  his  nature. 

His  dress  was  a  shooting-jacket  of  some  coarse  stuff, 
stained  and  washed  by  many  a  mountain  streamlet;  loose 
trousers  of  gray  cloth,  and  heavy  shoes,  —  such  as  are  worn 
by  the  peasantry,  wherever  such  luxuries  are  attainable.  It 
would  have  been  difficult,  at  a  mere  glance,  to  have  decided 
what  class  or  condition  of  life  he  pertained  to ;  for,  al- 
though certain  traits  bespoke  the  person  of  a  respectable 
rank,  there  was  a  general  air  of  neglect  about  him  that 
half  contradicted  the  supposition.  He  lay  for  some  time 
perfectly  motionless,  when  the  tramp  of  horses  at  a  distance 
down  the  glen  suddenly  roused  him  from  his  seeming  apathy, 
and  resting  on  his  elbow  he  listened  attentively.  The  sounds 
came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  now  the  dull  roll  of  a  carriage 
could  be  heard  approaching.  Strange  noises  these  in  that 
solitary  valley,  where  even  the  hoofs  of  a  single  horse  but 
rarely  roused  the  echoes.  A  sudden  dip  of  the  road  at  a 
little  distance  from  where  he  lay  concealed  the  view,  and 
he  remained  in  anxious  expectancy,  wondering  what  these 
sounds  should  portend,  when  suddenly  the  carriage  seemed 
to  have  halted,  and  all  was  still. 

For  some  minutes  the  youth  appeared  to  doubt  whether 
he  had  not  been  deceived  by  some  swooping  of  the  wind 
through  the  passes  in  the  mountains,  when  the  sound  of 
voices  fell  on  his  ear,  and  at  the  same  moment  two  figures 
appeared  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  slowly  advancing  up  the 
road.  The  one  was  a  man  advanced  in  years,  but  still  hale 
and  vigorous  in  look  ;  his  features,  even  yet  eminently  hand- 
some, wore  an  air  of  mingled  frankness  and  haughtiness; 
there  was  in  their  expression  the  habitual  character  of  one 
accustomed  to  exert  a  degree  of  command  and  influence 
over  others,  —  a  look  which,  of  all  the  characteristics  of 
temper,  is  least  easily  mistaken. 


4  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

At  his  side  walked  one  who,  even  at  a  passing  glance, 
might  be  pronounced  his  daughter,  so  striking  the  resem- 
blance between  them.  She  did  not  seem  above  sixteen  years 
of  age,  but  through  the  youthful  traits  of  her  features  you 
could  mark  the  same  character  of  expression  her  father's 
wore,  modified  by  tender  beauty,  which  at  that  age  blends 
the  loveliness  of  the  girl  with  the  graces  of  womanhood. 
Rather  above  than  below  the  middle  height,  her  figure  had 
that  distinguishing  mark  of  elegance  high  birth  impresses, 
and  in  her  very  walk  a  quick  observer  might  detect  an  air 
of  class. 

They  both  stopped  short  as  they  gained  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  and  appeared  wonder-struck  at  the  scene  before  them. 
The  gray  gloom  of  twilight  threw  its  sombre  shadows  over 
the  valley,  but  the  mountain  peaks  were  tipped  with  the  set- 
ting sun,  and  shone  in  those  rich  violet  and  purple  hues  the 
autumn  heath  displays  so  beautifully.  The  dark-leaved  holly 
and  the  bright  arbutus  blossom  lent  their  color  to  every  jut- 
ting cliff  and  promontory,  which,  to  eyes  unacquainted  with 
the  scenery,  gave  an  air  of  culture  strangely  at  variance 
with  the  desolation  around. 

"Is  this  wild  enough  for  your  fancy,  Sybella,"  said  the 
father,  with  a  playful  smile,  as  he  watched  the  varying  ex- 
pression of  the  young  girl's  features,  "  or  would  you  desire 
something  still  more  dreary?"  But  she  made  no  answer. 
Her  gaze  was  fixed  on  a  thin  wreath  of  smoke  that  curled 
its  way  upwards  from  what  appeared  a  low  mound  of  earth 
in  the  valley  below  the  road ;  some  branches  of  trees,  cov- 
ered with  sods  of  earth,  grass-grown  and  still  green,  were 
heaped  up  together,  and  through  these  the  vapor  found  a 
passage  and  floated  into  the  air. 

"I  am  -wondering  what  that  fire  can  mean,"  said  she, 
pointing  downwards  with  her  finger. 

''  Here  is  some  one  will  explain  it,"  said  the  old  man,  as 
for  the  first  time  he  perceived  the  youth,  who  still  main- 
tained his  former  attitude  on  the  bank,  and  with  a  studied 
indifference  paid  no  attention  to  those  whose  presence  had 
before  so  much  surprised  him. 

"  I  say,  my  good  fellow,  what  does  that  smoke  mean  we 
see  yonder?" 

The  youth  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  bound  that  almost 


GLENFLESK.  5 

startled  his  questioner,  so  sudden  and  abrupt  tlie  motion; 
his  features,  inactive  and  colorless  the  moment  before, 
seemed  almost  convulsed  now,  while  they  became  dark 
with  blood. 

"  Was  it  to  me  you  spoke?"  said  he,  in  a  low,  guttural 
tone,  which  his  passion  made  actually  tremulous. 

•'Yes  —  " 

But  before  the  old  man  could  reply,  his  daughter,  with 
the  quick  tact  of  womanhood,  perceiving  the  mistake  her 
father  had  fallen  into,  hastily  interrupted  him  by  saying,  — 

"  Yes,  sir;  we  were  asking  you  the  cause  of  the  fire  at 
the  foot  of  that  cliff." 

The  tone  and  the  manner  in  which  the  words  were 
uttered  seemed  at  once  to  have  disarmed  his  anger;  and 
although  for  a  second  or  two  he  made  no  answer,  his 
features  recovered  their  former  half -listless  look,  as  he  said : 

"  It  is  a  cabin ;  there  is  another  yonder,  beside  the  river." 

"A  cabin!  Surely  you  cannot  mean  that  people  are 
living  there?"  said  the  girl,  as  a  sickly  pallor  spread  itself 
across  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,  to  be  sure,"  replied  the  youth;  "they  have  no 
better  hereabouts." 

' '  What  poverty  —  what  dreadful  misery  is  this  !  "  said 
she,  as  the  great  tears  gushed  forth,  and  stole  heavily  down 
her  face. 

"  They  are  not  so  poor,"  answered  the  young  man,  in  a 
voice  of  almost  reproof.  "  The  cattle  along  that  mountain 
all  belong  to  these  people  —  the  goats  you  see  in  that  glen 
are  theirs  also." 

"  And  whose  estate  may  this  be?"  said  the  old  man. 

Either  the  questioner  or  his  question  seemed  to  have  called 
up  again  the  youth's  former  resentment,  for  he  fixed  his 
eyes  steadily  on  him  for  some  time  without  a  word,  and 
then  slowly  added,  — 

"  This  belongs  to  an  Englishman,  — a  certain  Sir  Marma- 
duke  Travers :  it  is  the  estate  of  O'Donoghue." 

"  Was,  you  mean,  once,"  answered  the  old  man,  quickly. 

"  I  mean  what  I  say,"  replied  the  other,  rudely.  "  Con- 
fiscation cannot  take  away  a  right ;  it  can  at  most  —  " 

This  speech  was  fortunately  not  destined  to  be  finished, 
for  while  he  was  speaking,  his  quick  glance  detected  a  dark 


6  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

object  soaring  above  his  head.  In  a  second  he  had  seized 
his  gun,  and  taking  a  steady  aim,  he  fired.  The  loud  re- 
port was  heard  repeated  in  many  a  far-off  glen,  and  ere  its 
last  echo  died  away,  a  heavy  object  fell  upon  the  road  not 
many  yards  from  where  they  stood. 

"  This  fellow,"  said  the  youth,  as  he  lifted  the  body  of  a 
large  black  eagle  from  the  ground  — ' '  this  fellow  was  a 
confiscator  too,  and  see  what  he  has  come  to.  You  'd  not 
tell  me  that  our  lambs  were  his,  would  you?  " 

The  roll  of  wheels  happily  drowned  these  words,  for  by 
this  time  the  postilions  had  reached  the  place,  the  four 
post-horses  laboring  under  the  heavy  laden  travelling  car- 
riage, with  its  innumerable  boxes  and  imperials. 

The  postboys  saluted  the  young  man  with  marked  defer- 
ence, to  which  he  scarcely  deigned  an  acknowledgment,  as 
he  replaced  his  shot-pouch,  and  seemed  to  prepare  for  the 
road  once  more. 

Meanwhile  the  old  gentleman  had  assisted  his  daughter 
to  the  carriage,  and  was  about  to  follow,  when  he  turned 
around  suddenly  and  said,  — 

"  If  your  road  lies  this  way,  may  I  offer  you  a  seat  with 
us?" 

The  youth  stared  as  if  he  did  not  well  comprehend  the 
offer,  and  his  cheek  flushed,  as  he  answered  coldly,  — 

"  I  thank  you ;  but  my  path  is  across  the  mountain." 

Both  parties  saluted  distantly,  the  door  of  the  carriage 
closed,  and  the  word  to  move  on  was  given,  when  the  young 
man,  taking  two  dark  feathers  from  the  eagle's  wing, 
approached  the  window. 

"  I  was  forgetting,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  of  hesitation  and 
diffidence;  ''  perhaps  you  would  accept  these  feathers." 

The  young  girl  smiled,  and,  half  blushing,  muttered  some 
words  in  reply,  as  she  took  the  offered  present.  The 
horses  sprang  forward  the  next  instant,  and  a  few  minutes 
after  the  road  was  as  silent  and  deserted  as  before,  and 
save  the  retiring  sound  of  the  wheels  nothing  broke  the 
stillness. 


CHAPTER   II. 


THE    WAYSIDE    INN. 


As  the  glen  continues  to  wind  between  the  mountains,  it 
gradually  becomes  narrower,  and  at  last  contracts  to  a  mere 
cleft,  flanked  on  either  side  by  two  precipitous  walls  of  rock, 
which  rise  to  the  height  of  several  hundred  feet  above  the 
road ;  this  is  the  pass  of  Keim-an-eigh,  one  of  the  wildest 
and  most  romantic  ravines  of  the  scenery  of  the  south. 

At  the  entrance  to  this  pass  there  stood,  at  the  time  we 
speak  of,  a  small  wayside  inn,  or  shebeen-house,  whose 
greatest  recommendation  was  in  the  fact  that  it  was  the 
only  place  where  shelter  or  refreshment  could  be  obtained 
for  miles  on  either  side.  An  humble  thatched  cabin  abut- 
ting against  the  granite  rock  of  the  glen,  and  decorated  with 
an  almost  effaced  sign  of  &t.  Finbar  converting  a  very  un- 
prepossessing heathen,  over  the  door,  showed  where  Mary 
M'Kelly  dispensed  "  enthertainment  for  man  and  baste." 

A  chance  traveller,  bestowing  a  passing  glance  upon  this 
modest  edifice,  might  deem  that  an  inn  in  such  a  dreary  and 
unfrequented  valley  must  prove  a  very  profitless  speculation. 
Few,  very  few,  travelled  the  road  —  fewer  still  would  halt 
to  bait  within  ten  miles  of  Bantry.  Report,  however,  said 
differently  ;  the  impression  in  the  country  was,  that  "  Mary's  '* 
—  as  it  was  briefly  styled  —  had  a  readier  share  of  business 
than  many  a  more  promising  and  pretentious  hotel ;  in  fact, 
it  was  generally  believed  to  be  the  resort  of  all  the  smug- 
glers of  the  coast,  and  the  market  where  the  shopkeepers 
of  the  interior  repaired  in  secret  to  purchase  the  contraband 
wares  and  "  run  goods"  which  poured  into  the  country  from 
the  shores  of  France  and  Holland. 

Vast  storehouses  and  caves  were  said  to  exist  in  the  rock 
behind  the  house,  to  store  away  the  valuable  goods  which 
from  time  to  time  arrived ;  and   it  was  currently  believed 


S  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

that  the  cargo  of  au  Incliaman  might  have  been  concealed 
within  these  secret  recesses,  and  never  a  cask  left  in  view  to 
attract  suspicion. 

It  is  not  into  these  gloomy  receptacles  of  contraband  that 
we  w^ould  now  conduct  our  reader,  but  into  a  far  more  cheer- 
ful and  more  comfortable  locality  —  the  spacious  kitchen  of 
the  cabin,  or,  in  fact,  the  apartment  which  served  for  the 
double  purpose  of  cooking  and  eating  —  the  common  room 
of  the  inn,  where  around  a  blazing  fire  of  black  turf  was 
seated  a  party  of  three  persons. 

At  one  side  sat  the  fat  and  somewhat  comely  figure  of 
Mary  herself,  a  woman  of  some  five-and-forty  years,  with 
that  expression  of  rough  and  ready  temperament  the  habits 
of  a  wayside  inn  will  teach.  She  had  a  clear,  full  eye  —  a 
wide,  but  not  unpleasant  mouth  —  and  a  voice  that  suited 
well  the  mellifluous  intonation  of  a  Kerry  accent.  Opposite 
to  her  were  two  thin,  attenuated  old  men,  who,  for  dress, 
look,  age,  voice,  and  manner,  it  would  have  been  almost 
impossible  to  distinguish  from  each  other ;  for  while  the 
same  weatherbeaten,  shrivelled  expression  was  common  to 
both,  their  jackets  of  blue  cloth,  leather  breeches,  and  top- 
boots,  were  so  precisely  alike,  that  they  seemed  the  very 
Dromios  brought  back  to  life,  to  perform  as  postilions. 
Such  they  were  —  such  they  had  been  for  above  fifty  years. 
They  had  travelled  the  country  from  the  time  they  were 
boys  —  they  entered  the  career  together,  and  together  they 
were  jogging  onward  to  the  last  stage  of  all,  the  only  one 
where  they  hoped  to  be  at  rest !  Joe  and  Jim  Daly  were  two 
names  no  one  ever  heard  disunited ;  they  were  regarded  as 
but  one  corporeally,  and  although  they  affected  at  times  to 
make  distinctions  themselves,  the  world  never  gave  them 
credit  for  any  consciousness  of  separate  identity.  These 
were  the  postilions  of  the  travelling  carriage,  which  having 
left  at  its  destination,  about  two  miles  distant,  they  were 
now  regaling  themselves  at  Mary's,  where  the  horses  were 
to  rest  for  the  night. 

"  Faix,  ma'am,  and  it's  driving  ye  may  call  it,"  said  one 
of  the  pair,  as  he  sipped  a  very  smoking  compound  the 
hostess  had  just  mixed  —  "a  hard  gallop  every  step  of  the 
way,  barrin'  the  bit  of  a  hill  at  Carrignacurra." 


THE   WAYSIDE   INN.  9 

'^  Well,  I  hope  ye  had  the  decent  hansel  for  it,  an^^how, 
Jim?" 

"I'm  Joe,  ma'am,  av  it's  plazing  to  ye.  Jim  is  the 
pole-end  boy ;  he  rides  the  layders.  And  it 's  true  for  ye 
—  they  behaved  dacent." 

"  A  goold  guinea,  divil  a  less,"  said  the  other;  "  there's 
no  use  in  denying  it.  Begorra,  it  was  all  natural,  them  's 
as  rich  as  Crasis ;  sure  did  n't  I  see  the  young  lady  herself 
throwing  out  the  tenpenny  bits  to  the  gossoons,  as  we  M'ent 
by,  as  if  it  was  dirt ;  bad  luck  to  me,  but  I  was  going  to 
throw  down  the  Bishop  of  Cloyne." 

"  Throw  down  who?"  said  the  hostess. 

*' The  near  wheeler,  ma'am;  he's  a  broken-kneed  ould 
devil  we  bought  from  the  bishop,  and  called  him  after  him ; 
and  as  I  was  saying,  I  was  going  to  cross  them  on  the  pole 
and  get  a  fall,  just  to  have  a  scramble  for  the  money  with 
the  gaffers." 

"  'They  look  so  poor,'  says  she.  God  help  her — it's 
little  poverty  she  saw  ;  there  is  n't  one  of  them  crayters 
hasn't  a  sack  of  potatoes." 

"  Ay  —  more  of  them  a  pig." 

"And  hens,"  chimed  in  the  first  speaker,  with  a  horror  at 
the  imposition  of  people  so  comfortably  endowed  affecting 
to  feel  any  pressure  of  poverty. 

"And  what's  bringing  them  here  at  all?"  said  Mrs. 
M'Kelly,  with  a  voice  of  some  asperity ;  for  she  foresaw  no 
pleasant  future  in  the  fact  of  a  resident  great  man,  who 
would  not  be  likely  to  give  any  encouragement  to  the 
branch  of  traflSc  her  principal  customers  followed. 

"  Sorrow  one  of  me  knows,"  was  the  safe  reply  of  the 
individual  addressed,  who,  not  being  prepared  with  any 
view  of  the  matter  save  that  founded  on  the  great  benefit 
to  the  country,  preferred  this  answer  to  a  more  decisive 
one. 

"  'Tis  to  improve  the  property,  they  say,"  interposed  the 
other,  who  was  not  equally  endowed  with  caution.  "  To 
look  after  the  estate  himself  he  has  come." 

"Improve,  indeed!"  echoed  the  hostess.  "Much  we 
want  their  improving  !  Why  did  n't  they  leave  us  the  ould 
families  of    the  countr}^?     It's  little   we  used    to   hear  of 


10  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

improving,  when  I  was  a  child.  God  be  good  to  us !  There 
was  ould  Miles  O'Donoghue,  the  present  man's  father,  I  'd 
like  to  see  what  he  'd  say,  if  they  talked  to  him  about  im- 
provement. Ayeh !  sure  I  mind  the  time  a  hogshead  of 
claret  did  n't  do  the  fortnight.  My  father  —  rest  his  soul ! 
—  used  to  go  up  to  the  house  every  Monday  morning  for 
orders ;  and  ye  'd  see  a  string  of  cars  following  him  at  the 
same  time,  with  tay,  and  sugar,  and  wine,  and  brandy,  and 
oranges,  and  lemons.     Them  was  the  raal  improvements  !  " 

"  'Tis  true  for  ye,  ma'am.  It  was  a  fine  house,  I  always 
heerd  tell." 

"  Forty-six  in  the  kitchen,  besides  about  fourteen  colleens 
and  gossoons  about  the  place ;  the  best  of  enthertainment 
upstairs  and  down." 

"  Musha  !  that  was  grand." 

"A  keg  of  sperits,  with  a  spigot,  in  the  servants'  hall, 
and  no  saying  by  your  leave,  but  drink  while  ye  could  stand 
over  it." 

"  The  Lord  be  good  to  us !  "  piously  ejaculated  the  twain. 

"  The  hams  was  boiled  in  sherry  wine." 

"  Begorra,  I  wish  I  was  a  pig  them  times." 

*'  And  a  pike  dare  n't  come  up  to  table  without  an 
elegant  pudding  in  his  belly  that  cost  five  pounds !  " 

"  'T  is  the  fish  has  their  own  luck  always,"  was  the  pro- 
found meditation  at  this  piece  of  good  fortune. 

"Ayeh!  ayeh!"  continued  the  hostess,  in  a  strain  of 
lamentation,  "when  the  ould  stock  was  in  it,  we  never 
heerd  tell  of  improvements.  He  '11  be  making  me  take  out 
a  license,  I  suppose,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  of  half  contemp- 
tuous incredulity. 

"  Faix !  there's  no  knowing,"  said  Joe,  as  he  shook  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  nodded  his  head  sententiously, 
as  though  to  say,  that  in  the  miserable  times  they'd  fallen 
upon  anything  was  possible. 

"Licensed  for  sperits  and  groceries,"  said  Mrs.  M'Kelly, 
with  a  sort  of  hysterical  giggle,  as  if  the  thought  were  too 
much  for  her  nerves. 

"  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  he  put  up  a  '  pike,'"  stammered 
out  Jim,  thereby  implying  that  human  atrocity  would  have 
reached  its  climax. 


THE   WAYSIDE   INN.  11 

The  silence  which  followed  this  terrible  suggestion  was 
now  loudly  interrupted  by  a  smart  knocking  at  the  door 
of  the  cabin,  which  was  already  barred  and  locked  for  the 
night. 

"Who's  there?"  said  Mary,  as  she  held  a  cloak  across 
the  blaze  of  the  fire,  so  as  to  prevent  the  light  being  seen 
through  the  apertures  of  the  door — "'tis  in  bed  we  are, 
and  late  enough  too." 

"  Open  the  door,  Mary,  it's  me,"  said  a  somewhat  con- 
fident voice.  "  I  saw  the  fire  burning  brightly,  and  there's 
no  use  hiding  it." 

"  Oh,  troth,  Mr.  Mark,  I  '11  not  keep  ye  out  in  the 
cowld,"  said  the  hostess,  as,  unbarring  the  door,  she  ad- 
mitted the  guest  whom  we  had  seen  some  time  since  in  the 
glen.  "  Sure  enough,  'tis  n't  an  O'Donoghue  we'd  shut  the 
door  agin,  anyhow." 

"  Thank  ye,  Mary,"  said  the  young  man ;  "I've  been  all 
day  in  the  mountains,  and  had  no  sport ;  and  as  that  pleas- 
ant old  Scotch  uncle  of  mine  gives  me  no  peace  when  I  come 
home  empty-handed,  I  have  resolved  to  stay  here  for  the 
night,  and  try  my  luck  to-morrow.  Don't  stir,  Jim  — 
there 's  room  enough,  Joe :  Mary's  fire  is  never  so  grudging 
but  there  's  a  warm  place  for  every  one.  What 's  in  this  big 
pot  here,  Mary?" 

"It's  a  stew,  sir;  more  by  token,  of  your  honor's 
providin'." 

"  Mine  —  how  is  that?  " 

"The  hare  ye  shot  afore  the  door  yesterday  morning; 
sure  it's  raal  luck  we  have  it  for  you  now."  And  while 
Mary  employed  herself  in  the  pleasant  bustle  of  preparing 
the  supper,  the  young  man  drew  near  to  the  fire,  and 
engaged  the  others  in  conversation. 

"  That  travelling  carriage  was  going  on  to  Bantry,  Joe,  I 
suppose?  "  said  the  youth,  in  a  tone  of  easy  indifference. 

"  No,  sir;  they  stopped  at  the  lodge  above." 

"At  the  lodge!  — surely  you  can't  mean  that  they  were 
the  English  family  —  Sir  Marmaduke?" 

"  'Tis  just  himself,  and  his  daughter.  I  heerd  them  say 
the  names  as  we  were  leaving  Macroom.  They  were  not 
expected  here  these  three  weeks ;  and  Captain  Hemsworth, 


12  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

the  agent,  is  n't  at  home ;  and  they  say  there 's  no  servants 
at  the  lodge,  nor  nothin'  ready  for  the  quality  at  all ;  and 
sure  when  a  great  lord  like  that  — " 

"He  is  not  a  lord,  you  fool;  he  has  not  a  drop  of  noble 
blood  in  his  body  :  he  's  a  London  banker  —  rich  enough  to 
buy  birth,  if  gold  could  do  it."  The  youth  paused  in  his 
vehemence;  then  added,  in  a  muttering  voice,  "  Rich  enough 
to  buy  the  inheritance  of  those  who  have  blood  in  their 
veins." 

The  tone  of  voice  in  which  the  young  man  spoke,  and 
the  angry  look  which  accompanied  these  words,  threw  a 
gloom  over  the  party,  and  for  some  time  nothing  was 
said  on  either  side.  At  last  he  broke  silence  abruptly  by 
saying,  — 

"  And  that  was  his  daughter,  then?  " 

''  Yes,  sir  ;  and  a  purty  crayture  she  is,  and  a  kind-hearted. 
The  moment  she  heerd  she  was  on  her  father's  estate,  she 
began  asking  the  names  of  all  the  people,  and  if  they  were 
well  off,  and  what  they  had  to  ate,  and  where  was  the 
schools." 

"The  schools!"  broke  in  Mary,  in  an  accent  of  great 
derision — "  musha,  it's  great  schooling  we  want  up  the 
glen  to  teach  us  to  bear  poverty  and  cowld  without  complain- 
ing ;  learning  is  a  fine  thing  for  the  hunger  —  " 

Her  irony  was  too  delicate  for  the  quick  apprehension  of 
poor  Jim,  who  felt  himself  addressed  by  the  remark,  and 
piously  responded,  — 

"  It  is  so,  glory  be  to  God !  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  man,  who  now  seemed  all  eager- 
ness to  resume  the  subject,  —  "  well,  and  what  then?  " 

"  Then  she  was  wondering  where  was  the  roads  up  to  the 
cabins  on  the  mountains,  as  if  the  likes  of  them  people  had 
roads !  " 

"They've  ways  of  their  own,  the  English,"  interrupted 
Jim,  who  felt  jealous  of  his  companion  being  always  referred 
to,  "  for  whenever  we  passed  a  little  potato  garden,  or  a 
lock  of  oats,  it  was  always,  '  God  be  good  to  us !  but  they  're 
mighty  poor  hereabouts ; '  but  when  we  got  into  the  raal 
wild  part  of  the  glen,  with  divil  a  house  nor  a  human 
being  near  us,  sorrow  word  out  of  their  mouths  but  '  fine ! 


THE   WAYSIDE   INN.  13 

beautiful !  elegant ! '  till  we  came  to  Keim-an-eigh,  and  then 
ye  'd  think  that  it  was  fifty  acres  of  wheat  they  were  looking 
at,  wid  all  the  praises  they  had  for  the  big  rocks  and  black 
cliffs  over  our  heads." 

"  I  showed  them  your  honor's  father's  place  on  the  moun- 
tains," said  Joe. 

"Yes,  faith,"  broke  in  Jim;  "and  the  young  lady 
laughed,  and  said,  '  You  see,  father,  we  have  a  neighbor 
after  all.'" 

The  blood  mounted  to  the  youth's  cheek,  till  it  became 
purple,   but  he  did  not  utter  a  word. 

"''Tis  the  O'Donoghue,  my  lady,'  said  I,"  continued 
Joe,  who  saw  the  difficulty  of  the  moment,  and  hastened  to 
relieve  it ;  "  '  that 's  his  castle  up  there,  with  the  high  tower. 
'T  was  there  the  family  lived  these  nine  hundred  years,  whin 
the  whole  country  was  their  own ;  and  they  wor  kings 
here.'  " 

"  And  did  you  hear  what  the  ould  gentleman  said  then?'* 
asked  Jim. 

"No,  I  didn't  —  I  wasn't  mindin'  him,"  rejoined  Joe, 
endeavoring  with  all  his  might  to  repress  the  indiscreet 
loquacity  of  the  other. 

"  What  was  it,  Jim?"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  forced 
smile. 

"  Faix,  he  begun  a-laughing,  yer  honor,  and  says  he, 
'  We  must  pay  our  respects  at  Coort,'  sa3's  he ;  '  and  I  'm 
sure  we  '11  be  well  received,  for  we  know  his  Royal  Highness 
already'  —  that's  what  he  called  yer  honor." 

The  youth  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  gesture  so  violent  and 
sudden  as  to  startle  the  whole  party. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  and  are  we  sunk  so  low  as  to 
be  a  scoff  and  a  jibe  to  a  London  money-changer?  If  I  but 
heard  him  speak  the  words  —  " 

"  Arrah,  he  never  said  it  at  all,"  said  Joe,  with  a  look 
that  made  his  counterpart  tremble  all  over.  "  That  bosthoon 
there  would  make  you  believe  he  was  in  the  coach,  convar- 
sing  the  whole  way  with  him.  Sure  was  n't  I  riding  the 
wheeler,  and  never  heerd  a  word  of  it.  Whisht,  I  tell  ye, 
and  don't  provoke  me." 

"Ay,   stop  your  mouth  with   some   of  this,"  interposed 


14  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

Mary,  as  she  helped  the  smoking  and  savory  mess  around 
the  table. 

Jim  looked  down  abashed  and  ashamed ;  his  testimony 
was  discredited ;  and  without  knowing  why  or  wherefore, 
he  yet  had  an  indistinct  glimmering  that  any  effort  to  vindi- 
cate his  character  would  be  ill  received;  he  therefore  said 
nothing  more.  His  silence  was  contagious,  and  the  meal 
which  a  few  moments  before  promised  so  pleasantly,  passed 
off  with  gloom  and  restraint. 

All  Mary  M'Kelly's  blandishments,  assisted  by  a  smoking 
cup  of  mulled  claret,  —  a  beverage  which  not  a  chateau  on 
the  Rhone  could  rival  in  racy  flavor,  —  failed  to  recall  the 
young  man's  good-humor :  he  sat  in  gloomy  silence,  only 
broken  at  intervals  by  sounds  of  some  low  muttering  to 
himself.  Mary,  at  length  having  arranged  the  little  room 
for  his  reception,  bade  him  good-night,  and  retired  to  rest. 
The  postilions  sought  their  dens  over  the  stable,  and  the 
youth,  apparently  lost  in  his  own  thoughts,  sat  alone  by  the 
embers  of  the  turf  fire,  and  at  last  sank  to  sleep  where  he 
was,  by  the  chimney  corner. 


CHAPTER  in. 

THE    "  COTTAGE    AND    THE    CASTLE." 

Of  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers  there  is  little  to  tell  the  reader 
beyond  what  the  few  hints  thrown  out  already  may  have 
conveyed  to  him.  He  was  a  London  banker,  whose  wealth 
was  reputed  to  be  enormous.  Originally  a  younger  son, 
he  succeeded  somewhat  late  in  life  to  the  baronetcy  and 
large  estates  of  his  family.  The  habits,  however,  of  an 
active  city  life  —  the  pursuits  which  a  long  career  had  made 
a  second  nature  to  him  —  rendered  him  both  unfit  to  enter 
upon  the  less  exciting  duties  of  a  country  gentleman's  exist- 
ence, and  made  him  regard  such  as  devoid  of  interest  or 
amusement.  He  continued,  therefore,  to  reside  in  London 
for  many  years  after  he  became  the  baronet;  and  it  was 
only  at  the  death  of  his  wife,  to  whom  he  was  devotedly 
attached,  that  these  habits  became  distasteful ;  he  found 
that  he  could  no  longer  continue  a  course  which  companion- 
ship and  mutual  feeling  had  rendered  agreeable,  and  he  re- 
solved at  once  to  remove  to  some  one  of  his  estates,  where  a 
new  sphere  of  occupation  might  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  his 
loss.  To  this  no  obstacle  of  any  kind  existed.  His  only 
son  was  already  launched  into  life  as  an  officer  in  the 
Guards ;  and,  except  his  daughter,  so  lately  before  the 
reader,  he  had  no  other  children. 

The  effort  to  attain  forgetfulness  was  not  more  successful 
here  than  it  is  usually  found  to  be.  The  old  man  sought, 
but  found  not,  in  a  country  life  the  solace  he  expected. 
Neither  his  tastes  nor  his  habits  suited  those  of  his  neigh- 
bors; he  was  little  of  a  sportsman,  still  less  of  a  farmer. 
The  intercourse  of  country  social  life  was  a  poor  recom- 
pense for  the  unceasing  flow  of  London  society.  He  grew 
wearied  very  soon  of  his  experiment,  and  longed  once  more 


16  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

to  return  to  his  old  haunts  and  habits.  One  more  chance, 
however,  remained  for  him,  and  he  was  unwilling  to  reject 
without  trying  it.  This  was,  to  visit  Ireland,  where  he 
possessed  a  large  estate  which  he  had  never  seen.  The 
property,  originally  mortgaged  to  his  father,  was  repre- 
sented as  singularly  picturesque  and  romantic,  possessing 
great  mineral  wealth,  and  other  resources  never  examined 
into  nor  made  available.  His  agent.  Captain  Hemsworth, 
a  gentleman  who  resided  on  the  estate,  at  his  annual  visit 
to  the  proprietor  used  to  dilate  upon  the  manifold  advan- 
tages and  capabilities  of  the  property,  and  never  ceased  to 
implore  him  to  pay  a  visit,  if  even  for  a  week  or  two,  sin- 
cerely trusting  the  while  that  such  an  intention  might  never 
occur  to  him.  These  entreaties,  made  from  year  to  year, 
were  the  regular  accompaniment  of  every  settlement  of 
account,  and  as  readily  replied  to  by  a  half  promise,  which 
the  maker  was  certainly  not  more  sincere  in  pledging. 

Three  years  of  country  life  had  now,  however,  disposed 
Sir  Marmaduke  to  reflect  on  this  long  unperformed  journey; 
and,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  his  agent  was  then  grouse- 
shooting  in  Scotland,  he  set  out  at  a  moment's  notice,  and 
without  a  word  to  apprise  the  household  at  the  lodge  of  his 
intended  arrival,  reached  the  house  in  the  evening  of  an 
autumn  day,  by  the  road  we  have  already  been  describing. 

It  is  but  justice  to  Sir  Marmaduke  to  add  that  he  was 
prompted  to  this  step  by  other  than  mere  selfish  considera- 
tions. The  state  of  Ireland  had  latterly  become  a  topic  of 
the  press  in  both  countries.  The  poverty  of  the  people  — 
interpreted  in  various  ways,  and  ascribed  to  very  opposite 
causes  —  was  a  constant  theme  of  discussion  and  conversa- 
tion. The  strange  phenomenon  of  a  land  teeming  with 
abundance,  yet  overrun  by  a  starving  population,  had  just 
then  begun  to  attract  notice;  and  theories  were  rife  in 
accounting  for  that  singular  and  anomalous  social  condi- 
tion, which,  unhappily,  the  experience  of  an  additional 
half-century  has  not  succeeded  in  solving. 

Sir  Marmaduke  was  well  versed  in  these  popular  writ- 
ings. He  had  the  "Whole  State  of  Ireland  "  by  heart;  and 
so  firmly  was  he  persuaded  that  his  knowledge  of  the  sub- 
ject was  perfect,  that  he  became  actually  impatient  until  he 


THE   "COTTAGE   AND  THE   CASTLE."  17 

had  reached  the  country,  and  commenced  the  great  sclieme 
of  regeneration  and  civilization,  by  which  Ireland  and  her 
people  were  to  be  placed  among  the  most  favored  nations. 
He  had  heard  much  of  Irish  indolence  and  superstition; 
Irish  bigotry  and  intolerance;  the  indifference  to  comfort; 
the  indisposition  to  exertion ;  the  recklessness  of  the  pres- 
ent; the  improvidence  of  the  future.  He  had  been  told 
that  saint-days  and  holidays  mulcted  labor  of  more  than 
half  its  due;  that  ignorance  made  the  other  half  almost 
valueless.  He  had  read  that  the  easy  contentment  with 
poverty  had  made  all  industry  distasteful,  and  all  exer- 
tion, save  what  was  actually  indispensable,  a  thing  to  be 
avoided. 

"Why  should  these  things  be,  when  they  were  not  so  in 
Norfolk  nor  in  Yorkshire  ?  "  was  the  question  he  ever  asked, 
and  to  which  his  knowledge  furnished  no  reply.  There, 
superstitions,  if  they  existed,  —  and  he  knew  not  if  they 
did,  —  came  not  in  the  way  of  daily  labor.  Saints  never 
unharnessed  the  team,  nor  laid  the  plough  inactive;  com- 
fort was  a  stimulant  to  industry  that  none  disregarded. 
Habits  of  order  and  decorum  made  the  possessor  respected ; 
poverty  almost  argued  misconduct,  and  certainly  was 
deemed  a  reproach.  Why,  then,  not  propagate  the  system 
of  these  happy  districts  in  Ireland?  To  do  this  was  the 
great  end  and  object  of  his  visit. 

Philanthropy  would  often  seem  unhappily  to  have  a  dis- 
like to  the  practical;  the  generous  emotions  appear  shorn 
of  their  freedom  when  trammelled  with  the  fruit  of  experi- 
ence or  reflection.  So  aertainly  it  was  in  the  case  before 
us.  Sir  Marmaduke  had  the  very  best  intentions,  the 
weakest  notions  of  their  realization;  the  most  unbounded 
desire  for  good,  the  very  narrowest  conceptions  of  how  to 
effect  it.  Like  most  theorists,  no  speculative  difficulty  was 
great  enough  to  deter;  no  practical  obstacle  was  so  small 
as  not  to  affright  him.  It  never,  apparently,  occurred  to 
him  that  men  are  not  everywhere  alike,  and  this  trifling 
omission  was  the  source  of  difficulties  which  he  persisted 
in  ascribing  to  causes  outside  of  himself.  Generous,  kind- 
hearted,  and  benevolent,  he  easily  forgave  an  injury;  never 
willingly  inflicted  one.    He  was  also,  however,  hot-tempered 

VOL.   I.  —  2 


18  THE   O'DOXOGKCE. 

and  passionate;  he  could  not  brook  opposition  to  his  will 
where  its  object  seemed  laudable  to  himself,  and  was  utterly 
unable  to  make  allowance  for  prejudices  and  leanings  in 
others,  simply  because  he  had  never  experienced  them  in 
his  own  breast. 

Such  was,  in  a  few  words,  the  present  occupant  of  "the 
Lodge,"  as  the  residence  of  the  agent  was  styled.  Origi- 
nally a  hunting-box,  it  had  been  enlarged  and  ornamented 
by  Captain  Hemsworth,  and  converted  into  a  cottage  of 
singular  beauty  without,  and  no  mean  pretension  to  com- 
fort within  doors.  It  occupied  an  indenture  of  the  glen  of 
Keim-an-eigh,  and  stood  on  the  borders  of  a  small  moun- 
tain lake,  the  surface  of  which  was  dotted  with  wooded 
islands.  Behind  the  cottage,  and  favored  by  the  shelter  of 
the  ravine,  the  native  oaks  grew  to  a  great  size,  and  con- 
trasted by  the  rich  foliage  waving  in  the  breeze  with  the 
dark  sides  of  the  cliff  opposite,  rugged,  barren,  and 
immutable. 

In  all  the  luxuriance  of  this  mild  climate,  shrubs  attained 
the  height  of  trees;  and  flowers,  rare  enough  elsewhere  to 
demand  the  most  watchful  care,  grew  here,  unattended  and 
unregarded.  The  very  grass  had  a  depth  of  green  softer 
and  more  pleasing  to  the  eye  than  in  other  places.  It 
seemed  as  if  nature  had,  in  compensation  for  the  solitude 
around,  shed  her  fairest  gifts  over  this  lonely  spot,  —  one 
bright  gem  in  the  dreary  sky  of  winter. 

About  a  mile  further  down  the  glen,  and  seated  on  a  lofty 
pinnacle  of  rock,  immediately  above  the  road,  stood  the 
once  proud  castle  of  the  O'Donoghue.  Two  square  and 
massive  towers  still  remained  to  mark  its  ancient  strength, 
and  the  ruins  of  various  outworks  and  bastions  could  be 
traced,  extending  for  a  considerable  distance  on  every  side. 
Between  these  square  towers,  and  occupying  the  space 
where,  originally,  a  curtain  wall  stood,  a  long,  low  building 
now  extended,  whose  high-pitched  roof  and  narrow  windows 
vouched  for  an  antiquity  of  little  more  than  a  hundred 
years.  It  was  a  strange,  incongruous  pile,  in  which  fortress 
and  farm-house  seemed  welded  together,  the  whole  no  bad 
type  of  its  past  and  its  present  owners.  The  approach  was 
by  a  narrow  causeway  cut  in  the  rock,  and  protected  by  a 


CF 

jC^LIFOTHE  "COTTAGE   AND  THE   CASTLE."  19 

square  keep,  through  whose  deep  arch  the  road  penetrated, 
flanked  on  either  hand  by  a  low  battlemented  wall;  along 
these,  two  rows  of  lime-trees  grew,  stately  and  beautiful  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  ruin  about  them.  They  spread  their 
waving  foliage  around,  and  threw  a  mellow,  solemn  shadow 
along  the  walk.  Except  these,  not  a  tree  nor  even  shrub 
was  to  be  seen;  the  vast  woods  of  nature's  own  planting 
had  disappeared,  the  casualties  of  war,  the  chances  of  times 
of  trouble,  or  the  more  ruinous  course  of  poverty,  had  laid 
them  low,  and  the  barren  mountain  now  stood  revealed, 
where  once  were  waving  forests  and  shady  groves,  the  home 
of  summer  birds,   the  lair  of  the  wild  deer. 

Cows  and  farm-horses  were  stabled  in  what  once  had 
been  the  outworks  of  the  castle.  Implements  of  husbandry 
lay  carelessly  on  all  sides,  neglect  and  decay  marked  every- 
thing, the  garden  wall  was  broken  down  in  many  places, 
and  cattle  strayed  at  will  among  the  torn  fruit-trees  and 
dilapidated  terraces;  while,  as  if  to  add  to  the  dreary 
aspect  of  the  scene,  the  ground  for  a  considerable  distance 
around  had  been  tilled,  but  never  subsequently  restored  to 
grass  land;  and  now,  along  its  ridged  surface  noisome 
weeds  and  thistles  grew  rankly,  tainting  the  air  with  their 
odor,  and  sending  up  heavy  exhalations  from  the  moist  and 
spongy  earth.  If,  without,  all  looked  sad  and  sorrow- 
struck,  the  appearances  within  were  not  much  better.  A 
large  flagged  hall  opened  upon  two  long  ill-lighted  corri- 
dors, from  which  a  number  of  small  sitting-rooms  led  off. 
Many  of  these  were  perfectly  devoid  of  furniture;  in  the 
others,  what  remained  seemed  to  owe  its  preservation  to  its 
want  of  value  rather  than  any  other  quality.  Cracked  look- 
ing-glasses, broken  chairs  rudely  mended  by  some  country 
hand,  ragged  and  patched  carpets,  were  the  only  things  to 
be  found,  with  here  and  there  some  dirt-disfigured  piece 
of  framed  canvas,  which,  whether  tapestry  or  painting,  no 
eye  could  now  discover.  These  apartments  bore  little  or 
no  trace  of  habitation;  indeed,  for  many  years  they  were 
rarely  entered  by  any  one.  A  large  square  room  in  one  of 
the  towers,  of  some  forty  feet  in  dimensions,  was  the  ordi- 
nary resort  of  the  family,  serving  the  purposes  of  drawing 
and  dining-room.     This  was    somewhat   better  in    appear- 


20  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

ance.  Whatever  articles  of  furniture  had  any  pretension  to 
comfort  or  convenience  were  here  assembled ;  and  here  were 
met  old-fashioned  sofas,  deep  arm-chairs,  quaint  misshapen 
tables  like  millepedes,  and  fat  old  foot-stools,  the  pious 
work  of  long-forgotten  grandmothers.  A  huge  screen, 
covered  with  a  motley  array  of  prints  and  caricatures,  cut 
off  the  group  around  the  ample  fireplace  from  the  remainder 
of  the  apartment;  and  it  is  within  this  charmed  circle  we 
would  now  conduct  our  reader. 

In  the  great  arm-chair  to  the  right  of  the  ample  fireplace, 
sat  a  powerfully  built  old  man,  whose  hair  was  white  as 
snow,  and  fell  in  long  waving  masses  at  either  side  of  his 
head.  His  forehead,  massive  and  expanded,  surmounted 
two  dark,  penetrating  eyes,  which  even  extreme  old  age 
had  not  deprived  of  their  lustre.  The  other  features  of  his 
face  were  rather  marked  by  a  careless,  easy  sensuality,  than 
by  any  other  character,  except  that  in  the  mouth  the  expres- 
sion of  firmness  was  strongly  displayed.  His  dress  was  a 
strange  mixture  of  the  costume  of  gentleman  and  peasant. 
His  coat,  worn  and  threadbare,  bore  traces  of  better  days, 
in  its  cut  and  fashion.  His  vest  also  showed  the  fragment 
of  tarnished  embroidery  along  the  margin  of  the  flapped 
pockets ;  but  the  coarse  knee-breeches  of  corduroy,  and  the 
thick  gray  lamb's-wool  stockings,  wrinkled  along  the  legs, 
were  no  better  than  those  worn  by  the  poorer  farmers  of  the 
neighborhood. 

This  was  the  O'Donoghue  himself.  Opposite  to  him  sat 
one  as  unlike  him  in  every  respect  as  it  was  possible  to 
conceive.  He  was  a  tall,  spare,  raw-boned  figure,  whose 
gray  eyes  and  high  cheek-bones  bore  traces  of  a  different 
race  to  that  of  the  aged  chieftain.  An  expression  of  intense 
acuteness  pervaded  every  feature  of  his  face,  and  seemed 
concentrated  about  the  angles  of  the  mouth,  where  a  series 
of  deep  wrinkles  were  seen  to  cross  and  intermix  with  each 
other,  —  omens  of  a  sarcastic  spirit,  indulged  without  the 
least  restraint  on  the  part  of  its  possessor.  His  wiry  gray 
hair  was  brushed  rigidly  back  from  his  bony  temples,  and 
fastened  into  a  short  cue  behind,  thus  giving  greater  appar- 
ent length  to  his  naturally  long  and  narrow  face.  His 
dress  was  that  of  a  gentleman  of  the  time,  —  a  full-skirted 


THE   "COTTAGE   AND  THE   CASTLE." 


21 


coat  of  a  dark  brown,  with  a  long  vest  descending  below 
the  hips;  breeches  somewhat  a  deeper  shade  of  the  same 
color,  and  silk  stockings,  with  silver-buckled  shoes,  com- 
pleted an  attire,  which,  if  plain,  was  yet  scrupulously  neat 
and  respectable.  As  he  sat,  almost  bolt  upright  in  his 
chair,  there  was  a  look  of  vigilance  and  alertness  about  him 
very  opposite  to  the  careless,  nearly  drooping  air  of  the 
U'Donoghue.     Such  was  Sir  Archibald  M'Nab,  the  brother 


of  the  O'Donohgue's  late  wife;  for  the  old  man  had  been 
a  widower  for  several  years.  Certain  circumstances  of  a 
doubtful  and  mysterious  nature  had  made  him  leave  his 
native  country  of  Scotland  many  years  before;  and  since 
that,  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  with  his  brother-in-law, 
whose  retired  habits  and  solitary  residence  afforded  the 
surest  guarantee  against  his  ever  being  traced.  His  age 
must  have  been  almost  as  great  as  the  O'Donoghue's;  but 
the  energy  of  his  character,  the  lightness  of  his  frame,  and 
the  habits  of  his  life,  all  contributed  to  make  him  seem 
much  younger. 


22  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

Never  were  two  natures  more  dissimilar.  The  one,  reck- 
less, lavish,  and  improvident;  the  other,  cautious,  saving, 
and  full  of  forethought.  O'Douoghue  was  frank  and  open, 
—  his  opinions  easily  known,  his  resolutions  hastil}^  formed. 
M'Nab  was  close  and  secret,  carefully  weighing  everything 
before  he  made  up  his  mind,  and  not  much  given  to  impart- 
ing his  notions  when  he  had  done  so. 

In  one  point  alone  was  there  any  similarity  between  them: 
pride  of  ancestry  and  birth  they  both  possessed  in  com- 
mon; but  this  trait,  so  far  from  serving  to  reconcile  the 
other  discrepancies  of  their  natures,  kept  them  even  wider 
apart,  and  added  to  the  passive  estrangement  of  ill-matched 
associates  an  additional  element  of  active  discord. 

There  was  a  lad  of  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age, 
who  sat  beside  the  fire  on  a  low  stool,  busily  engaged  in 
deciphering,  by  the  fitful  light  of  the  bog-wood,  the  pages 
of  an  old  volume,  in  which  he  seemed  deeply  interested. 
The  blazing  pine,  as  it  threw  its  red  gleam  over  the  room, 
showed  the  handsome  forehead  of  the  youth,  and  the  ample 
locks  of  rich  auburn  which  hung  in  clusters  over  it;  while 
his  face  was  strikingly  like  the  old  man's,  the  mildness  of 
its  expression  —  partly  the  result  of  youth,  partly  the  char- 
acter imparted  by  his  present  occupation  —  was  unlike  that 
of  either  his  father  or  brother;  for  Herbert  O'Donoghue 
was  the  younger  son  of  the  house,  and  was  said,  both  in 
temper  and  appearance,   to  resemble  his  mother. 

At  a  distance  from  the  fire,  and  with  a  certain  air  of  half 
assurance,  half  constraint,  sat  a  man  of  some  fi%'e-and-thirty 
years  of  age,  whose  dress  of  green  coat,  short  breeches,  and 
top-boots  suggested  at  once  the  jockey,  to  which  the  min- 
gled look  of  confidence  and  cunning  bore  ample  corrobora- 
tion. This  was  a  well-known  character  in  the  South  of 
Ireland  at  that  time.  His  name  was  Lanty  Lawler.  The 
sporting  habits  of  the  gentry,  their  easiness  on  the  score  of 
intimacy,  the  advantages  of  a  ready-money  purchaser  when- 
ever they  wished  "to  weed  their  stables,"  admitted  the 
horse-dealer  pretty  freely  among  a  class  to  which  neither 
his  habits  nor  station  could  have  warranted  him  in  present- 
ing himself.  But,  in  addition  to  these  qualities,  Lanty 
was  rather  a  prize  in  remote  and  unvisited  tracts  such  as 


THE   "COTTAGE   AND   THE   CASTLE."  23 

the  one  we  have  been  describing;  his  information  being 
both  great  and  varied  in  everything  going  forward.  He 
had  the  latest  news  of  the  capital,  —  the  fashions  of  hair 
and  toilet,  the  colors  worn  by  the  ladies  in  vogue,  and  the 
newest  rumors  of  any  intended  change.  He  knew  well  the 
gossip  of  politics  and  party;  upon  the  probable  turn  of 
events  in  and  out  of  Parliament  he  could  hazard  a  guess 
with  a  fair  prospect  of  accuracy.  With  the  prices  of  stock 
and  the  changes  in  the  world  of  agriculture  he  was  thor- 
oughly familiar,  and  had,  besides,  a  world  of  stories  and 
small  talk  on  every  possible  subject,  which  he  brought 
forth  with  the  greatest  tact  as  regarded  the  tastes  and  char- 
acter of  his  company,  one  half  of  his  acquaintances  being 
totally  ignorant  of  the  gifts  and  graces  by  which  he 
obtained  fame  and  character  with  the  other. 

A  roving,  vagabond  life  gave  him  a  certain  free-and-easy 
air,  which,  among  the  majority  of  his  associates,  was  a 
great  source  of  his  popularity;  but  he  well  knew  when  to 
lay  this  aside  and  assume  the  exact  shade  of  deference 
and  respect  his  company  might  require.  If,  then,  with 
O'Donoghue  himself  he  would  have  felt  perfectly  at  ease, 
the  presence  of  Sir  Archy,  and  his  taciturn  solemnity,  was 
a  sad  check  upon  him,  and  mingled  the  freedom  he  felt 
with  a  degree  of  reserve  far  from  comfortable.  However, 
he  had  come  for  a  purpose,  and,  if  successful,  the  result 
would  amply  remunerate  him  for  any  passing  inconvenience 
he  might  incur;  and  with  this  thought  he  armed  himself  as 
he  entered  the  room  some  ten  minutes  before. 

"So  you  are  looking  for  Mark?"  said  the  O'Donoghue  to 
Lanty.  "You  can't  help  hankering  after  that  gray  mare  of 
his." 

"  Sure  enough,  sir,  there  's  no  denying  it.  I  '11  have  to 
give  him  the  forty  pounds  for  her,  though,  as  sure  as  I  'm 
here,  she  's  not  worth  the  money;  but  when  I  've  a  fancy 
for  a  beast,  or  take  a  conceit  out  of  her,  —  it 's  no  use,  I 
must  buy  her;  that's  it!" 

"Well,  I  don't  think  he  '11  give  her  to  you  now,  Lanty; 
he  has  got  her  so  quiet  —  so  gentle  —  that  I  doubt  he'll 
part  with  her." 

"It 's  little  a  quiet  one  suits  him;   faix,  he  'd  soon  tire  of 


24  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

her  if  she  wasn't  rearing  or  plunging  like  mad!  He's  an 
elegant  rider,  God  bless  him!  I  've  a  black  horse  now  that 
would  mount  him  well;  he  's  out  of  'Divil-may-care,' 
Mooney's  horse,  and  can  take  six  foot  of  a  wall  flying, 
with  fourteen  stone  on  his  back;  and  barring  the  least  taste 
of  a  capped  hock,  you  could  not  see  speck  nor  spot  about 
him  wrong." 

"He's  in  no  great  humor  for  buying,  just  now,"  inter- 
posed the  O'Donoghue,  with  a  voice  to  which  some  suddenly 
awakened  recollection  imparted  a  tone  of  considerable 
depression. 

"Sure  we  might  make  a  swop  with  the  mare,"  rejoined 
Lanty,  determined  not  to  be  foiled  so  easily.  And  then, 
as  no  answer  was  forthcoming,  after  a  long  pause  he  added, 
"And  haven't  I  the  elegant  pony  for  Master  Herbert 
there?  a  crame  color  —  clean  bred  —  with  white  mane  and 
tail.  If  he  was  the  Prince  of  Wales  he  might  ride  her. 
She  has  racing  speed  —  they  tell  me,  for  I  only  have  her  a 
few  days ;  and,  faix,  ye  'd  win  all  the  county  stakes  with  her." 

The  youth  looked  up  from  his  book,  and  listened  with 
glistening  eyes  and  animated  features  to  the  description, 
which,  to  one  reared  as  he  was,  possessed  no  common 
attraction. 

*'Sure  I  '11  send  over  for  her  to-morrow,  and  you  can  try 
her,"  said  Lanty,  as  if  replying  to  the  gaze  with  which  the 
boy  regarded  him. 

"Ye  mauna  do  nae  sich  a  thing,"  broke  in  M'Nab. 
"Keep  your  rogueries  and  rascalities  for  the  auld  genera- 
tion ye  hae  assisted  to  ruin;  but  leave  the  young  anes  alane 
to  mind  ither  matters  than  dicing  and  horse- racing." 

Either  the  O'Donoghue  conceived  the  allusion  one  that 
bore  hardly  on  himself,  or  he  felt  vexed  that  the  authority 
of  a  father  over  his  son  should  have  been  usurped  by  an- 
other, or  both  causes  were  in  operation  together,  for  he 
turned  an  angry  look  on  Sir  Archy,   and  said,  — 

"And  why  should  n't  the  boy  ride?  was  there  ever  one  of 
his  name  or  family  that  did  n't  know  how  to  cross  a  coun- 
try?    I  don't  intend  him  for  a  Highland  pedler." 

"He  might  be  waur,"  retorted  M'Nab,  solemnly,  — "he 
might  be  an  Irish  beggar." 


THE   "COTTAGE   AND  THE   CASTLE."  25 

"By  my  soul,  sir  —  "  broke  in  O'Donoghue.  But  fortu- 
nately an  interruption  saved  the  speech  from  being  con- 
cluded; for  at  the  same  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
Mark  O'Donoghue,  travel-stained  and  weary-looking, 
entered    the  room. 

"Well,  Mark,"  said  the  old  man,  as  his  eyes  glistened  at 
the  appearance  of  his  favorite  son,  "what  sport,  boy?  " 

"Poor  enough,  sir;  five  brace  in  two  days  is  nothing  to 
boast  of,  besides  two  hares.  Ah,  Lanty,  you  here  —  how 
goes  it?  " 

"Purty  well,  as  times  go,  Mr.  Mark,"  said  the  horse- 
dealer,  affecting  a  degree  of  deference  he  would  not  have 
deemed  necessary  had  they  been  alone.  "I  'm  glad  to  see 
you  back  again." 

"  Why  —  what  old  broken-down  devils  have  you  now  got 
on  hand  to  pass  off  upon  us?  It's  fellows  like  you  destroy 
the  sport  of  the  country.  You  carry  away  every  good  horse 
to  be  found,  and  cover  the  country  with  spavined,  wind- 
galled  brutes,  not  fit  for  the  kennel." 

"That's  it,  Mark;  give  him  a  canter,  lad,"  cried  the  old 
man,  joyfully. 

"I  know  what  you  are  at,  well  enough,"  resumed  the 
youth,  encouraged  by  these  tokens  of  approval ;  "  you  want 
that  gray  mare  of  mine.  You  have  some  fine  English 
oflScer  ready  to  give  you  a  hundred  and  fifty,  or,  maybe, 
two  hundred  guineas  for  her,  the  moment  you  take  her  over 
to  England." 

"May  I  never  —  " 

"That's  the  trade  you  drive.  Nothing  too  bad  for  us; 
nothing  too  good  for  them." 

"  See,  now,  Mr.  Mark,  I  hope  I  may  never  —  " 

"Well,  Lanty,  one  word  for  all:  I'd  rather  send  a  bullet 
through  her  skull  this  minute  than  let  you  have  her  for  one 
of  your  fine  English  patrons." 

"  Won't  you  let  me  speak  a  word  at  all  ?  "  interposed  the 
horse-dealer,  in  an  accent  half  imploring,  half  deprecating. 
"If  I  buy  the  mare  —  and  it  is  n't  for  want  of  a  sporting 
offer  if  I  don't  —  she  '11  never  go  to  England ;  no  —  devil  a 
step.  She  's  for  one  in  the  country  here  beside  you;  but  I 
won't  say  more,  and  there,  now  "  —  at  these  words  he  drew 


26  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

a  soiled  black-leather  pocket-book  from  the  breast  of  his 
coat,  and,  opening  it,  displayed  a  thick  roll  of  bank-notes, 
tied  with  a  piece  of  string,  —  "  there  's  sixty  pounds  in  that 
bundle  there;  at  least,  I  hope  so,  for  I  never  counted  it 
since  I  got  it.  Take  it  for  her  or  leave  it,  just  as  you  like; 
and  may  I  never  have  luck  with  a  beast,  but  there  's  not  a 
gentleman  in  the  county  would  give  the  same  money  for 
her."  Here  he  dropped  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  added, 
"  Sure  the  speedy  cut  is  ten  pounds  off  her  price  any  day, 
between  two  brothers." 

"  What!  "  said  the  youth,  as  his  brows  met  in  passion,  and 
his  heightened  color  showed  how  his  anger  was  raised. 

"Well,  well,  it's  no  matter;  there's  my  offer.  And  if  I 
make  a  ten-pound  note  of  her,  sure  it's  all  I  live  by;  I 
wasn't  born  to  an  estate  and  a  fine  property,  like  your- 
self." 

These  words,  uttered  in  such  a  tone  as  to  be  inaudible  to 
the  rest,  seemed  to  mollify  the  young  man's  wrath;  for, 
sullenly  stretching  forth  his  hand,  he  took  the  bundle  and 
opened  it  on  the  table  before  him. 

"A  dry  bargain  never  was  a  lucky  one,  they  say,  Lanty; 
isn't  that  so?"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  as,  seizing  a  small 
hand-bell,  he  ordered  up  a  supply  of  claret,  as  well  as  the 
more  vulgar  elements  for  punch,  should  the  dealer,  as  was 
probable,   prefer  that  liquor. 

"These  notes  seem  to  have  seen  service,"  muttered  Mark; 
"here  's  a  ragged  fellow  There  's  no  making  out  whether 
he  's  two  or  ten." 

"They  were  well  handled,  there's  no  doubt  of  it,"  said 
Lanty;  "the  tenants  was  paying  them  in;  and  sure  you 
know  yourself  how  they  thumb  and  finger  a  note  before 
they  part  with  it.  You  'd  think  they  were  trying  to  take 
leave  of  them.  There  's  many  a  man  can't  read  a  word 
can  tell  you  the  amount  of  a  note  just  by  the  feel  of  it!  — 
Thank  j^ou,  sir,  I  *\\  take  the  spirits  —  it 's  what  I  'm  most 
used  to." 

"AYho  did  you  get  them  from,  Lanty?  "  said  the 
O'Donoghue. 

"Malachi  Glynn,  sir,  of  Cahernavorra,  and,  by  the  same 
token,  I  got  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  same  house  once  before. " 


THE   "COTTAGE   AND   THE   CASTLE."  27 

"How  was  that?  "  said  the  old  man;  for  he  saw  by  the 
twinkle  of  Lanty's  eye  that  a  story  was  coming. 

"Faix,  just  this  way,  sir.  It  was  a  little  after  Christmas 
last  year  that  Mr.  Maiaehi  thought  he  'd  go  up  to  Dublin 
for  a  month  or  six  weeks  with  the  young  ladies,  just  to 
show  them,  by  way  of  —  for,  ye  see,  there  's  no  dealing  at 
all,  down  here  —  and  he  thought  he  'd  bring  them  up  and 
see  what  could  be  done.  Musha!  but  they're  the  hard 
stock  to  get  rid  of;  and  somehow  they  don't  improve  by 
holding  them  over.  And  as  there  was  levees,  and  drawing- 
rooms,  and  balls  going  on,  sure  it  would  go  hard  but  he  'd 
get  off  a  pair  of  them,  anyhow.  Well,  it  was  an  elegant 
scheme,  if  there  was  money  to  do  it;  but  devil  a  farthin* 
was  to  be  had,  high  or  low,  beyond  seventy  pounds  I  gave 
for  the  two  carriage-horses  and  the  yearlings  that  was  out 
in  the  field,  and  sure  that  would  n't  do  at  all.  He  tried  the 
tenants  for  'the  November;  '  but  what  was  the  use  of  it, 
though  he  offered  a  receipt  in  full  for  ten  shillings  in  the 
pound  ?  —  when  a  lucky  thought  struck  him.  Troth,  and 
it 's  what  ye  may  call  a  grand  thought  too.  He  was  walk- 
ing about  before  the  door,  thinking  and  ruminating  how  to 
raise  the  money,  when  he  sees  the  sheep  grazing  on  the 
lawn  foment  him  —  not  that  he  could  sell  one  of  them,  for 
there  was  a  strap  of  a  bond  or  mortgage  on  them  a  year 
before.  'Faix,'  and  says  he,  'when  a  man's  hard  up  for 
cash,  he  's  often  obliged  to  wear  a  mighty  threadbare  coat, 
and  go  cold  enough  in  the  winter  season  —  and  sure  it 's 
reason  sheep  isn't  better  than  Christians;  and  begorra,* 
says  he,  'I  '11  have  the  fleece  off  ye,  if  the  weather  was 
twice  as  cowld.'  No  sooner  said  than  done.  They  were 
ordered  into  the  haggard-yard  the  same  evening,  and,  as 
sure  as  ye  're  there,  they  cut  the  wool  off  them  three  days 
after  Christmas.  Musha!  but  it  was  a  pitiful  sight  to  see 
them  turned  out  shivering  and  shaking,  with  the  snow  on 
the  ground.  And  it  did  n't  thrive  with  him;  for  three  died 
the  first  night.  Well,  when  he  seen  what  come  of  it,  he 
had  them  all  brought  in  again,  and  they  gathered  all  the 
spare  clothes  and  the  ould  rags  in  the  house  together,  and 
dressed  them  up,  —  at  least,  the  ones  that  were  worst;  and 
such  a  set  of  craytures  never  was  seen.     One  had  an  old 


28  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

petticoat  on,  another  a  flannel  waiscoat,  many  could  only 
get  a  cravat  or  a  pair  of  gaiters ;  but  the  ram  beat  all,  for 
he  was  dressed  in  a  pair  of  corduroy  breeches  and  an  old 
spencer  of  the  master's;  and  may  I  never  live,  if  I  did  n't 
roll  down  full  length  on  the  grass  when  I  seen  hiin." 

For  some  minutes  before  Lanty  had  concluded  his  story, 
the  whole  party  were  convulsed  with  laughter.  Even  Sir 
Archy  vouchsafed  a  grave  smile,  as,  receiving  the  tale  in  a 
different  light,   he  muttered  to  himself,  — 

''They  're  a'  the  same,  — ne'er-do-well,  reckless  deevils." 

One  good  result,  at  least,  followed  the  anecdote:  the 
good-humor  of  the  company  was  restored  at  once.  The 
bargain  was  finally  concluded;  and  Lanty  succeeded  by 
some  adroit  flattery  in  recovering  five  pounds  of  the  price, 
under  the  title  of  luck-penny,  —  a  portion  of  the  contract 
M'Nab  would  have  interfered  against  at  once,  but  that,  for 
his  own  especial  reasons,  he  preferred  remaining  silent. 

The  party  soon  after  separated  for  the  night,  and  as 
Lanty  sought  the  room  usually  destined  for  his  accommo- 
dation, he  muttered,  as  he  went,  his  self-congratulations  on 
his  bargain.  Already  he  had  nearly  reached  the  end  of  the 
long  corridor,  where  his  chamber  lay,  when  a  door  was 
cautiously  opened,  and  Sir  Archy,  attired  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  stood  before  him. 

"A  word  wi'  ye.  Master  Lawler,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  dry 
tone  the  horse-dealer  but  half  liked.  "A  word  wi'  ye 
before  ye  retire  to  rest." 

Lanty  followed  the  old  man  into  the  apartment  with  an 
air  of  affected  carelessness,  which  soon,  however,  gave  way 
to  surprise,  as  he  surveyed  the  chamber,  so  little  like  any 
other  in  that  dreary  mansion.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
shelves,  loaded  with  books;  maps  and  prints  lay  scattered 
about  on  tables.  An  oak  cabinet  of  great  beauty  in  form 
and  carving  occupied  a  deep  recess  beside  the  chimney ;  and 
over  the  fireplace  a  claymore  of  true  Highland  origin,  and  a 
pair  of  silver-mounted  pistols,  were  arranged  like  a  trophy, 
surmounted  by  aflat  Highland  cap,  with  a  thin  black  eagle's 
feather. 

Sir  Archy  seemed  to  enjoy  the  astonishment  of  his  guest, 
and  for  some  minutes  made  no  effort  to  break  silence.  At 
length  he  said,  — 


THE   "COTTAGE   AND  THE   CASTLE."  29 

"Ye  war  speaking  about  a  sma'  powny  for  the  laird's 
son,  Mister  Lawler:  may  I  ask  ye  the  price?" 

The  words  acted  like  a  talisman;  Lanty  was  himself  in  a 
moment.  The  mere  mention  of  horseflesh  brought  back  the 
whole  crowd  of  his  daily  associations,  and  with  his  native 
volubility  he  proceeded,  not  to  reply  to  the  question,  but  to 
enumerate  the  many  virtues  and  perfections  of  the  "  sweet- 
est tool  that  ever  travelled  on  four  legs." 

Sir  Archy  waited  patiently  till  the  eloquent  eulogy  was 
over,  and  then  dryly  repeated  his  first  demand. 

"Is  it  her  price?  "  said  Lanty,  repeating  the  question  to 
gain  time  to  consider  how  far  circumstances  might  warrant 
him  in  pushing  a  market.  "It's  her  price  ye 're  asking 
me,  Sir  Archibald?  Troth,  and  I'll  tell  you;  there's  not 
a  man  in  Kerry  could  say  what 's  her  price.  Goold  would  n't 
pay  for  her,  av  it  was  value  was  wanted.  See,  now,  she  's 
not  fourteen  hands  high,  but  may  I  never  leave  this  room 
if  she  wouldn't  carry  me  —  ay,  myself  here,  twelve  stone 
six  in  the  scales  —  over  e'er  a  fence  between  this  and 
Inchigeela." 

"It's  no  exactly  to  carry  you  that  I  was  making  my 
inquiry,"  said  the  old  man,  with  an  accent  of  more  asperity 
than  he  had  used  before. 

"  Well,  then,  for  Master  Herbert  —  sure  she  is  the  very 
beast  —  " 

"What  are  you  asking  for  her?  Canna  you  answer  a 
straightforred  question,  man?"  reiterated  Sir  Archy,  in  a 
voice  there  was  no  mistaking. 

"Twenty  guineas,  then,"  replied  Lanty,  in  a  tone  of 
defiance;  "and  if  ye  offer  me  pounds  I  won't  take  it." 

Sir  Archy  made  no  answer;  but  turning  to  the  old  cabi- 
net, he  unlocked  one  of  the  small  doors,  and  drew  forth  a 
long  leather  pouch,  curiously  embroidered  with  silver;  from 
this  he  took  ten  guineas  in  gold,  and  laid  them  leisurely  on 
the  table.  The  horse  dealer  eyed  them  askance,  but  with- 
out the  slightest  sign  of  having  noticed  them. 

"I'm  no  goin'  to  buy  your  beast,  Mr.  Lawler,"  said  the 
old  man,  slowly;  "I'm  just  goin'  merely  to  buy  your  ain 
good  sense  and  justice.  You  say  the  powny  is  worth 
twenty  guineas?" 


30  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

"As  sure  as  I  stand  here.     I  would  u't  —  " 

"Weel,  weel,  I'm  content.  There's  half  the  money; 
tak'  it,  but  never  let 's  hear  anither  word  about  her  here. 
Tak'  her  awa'  wi'  ye;  sell  or  shoot  her,  do  what  ye  please 
wi'  her;  but,  mind  me,  man,"  —  here  his  voice  became  full, 
strong,  and  commanding,  —  "  tak'  care  that  ye  meddle  not 
wi'  that  young  callant,  Herbert.  Dinna  fill  his  head  wi' 
ranting  thoughts  of  dogs  and  horses.  Let  there  be  one  of 
the  house  wi'  a  soul  above  a  scullion  or  a  groom.  Ye  have 
brought  ruin  enough  here;  you  can  spare  the  boy,  I  trow. 
There,  sir,  tak'  your  money." 

For  a  second  or  two  Lanty  seemed  undecided  whether  to 
reject  or  accept  a  proposal  so  humiliating  in  its  terms ;  and 
when  at  length  he  acceded,  it  was  rather  from  his  dread  of 
the  consequences  of  refusal  than  from  any  satisfaction  the 
bargain  gave  him. 

"I'm  afraid,  Sir  Archibald,"  said  he,  half  timidly, — 
"I'm  afraid  you  don't  understand  me  well." 

"I'm  afraid  I  do,"  rejoined  the  old  man,  with  a  bitter 
smile  on  his  lip;  "but  it's  better  we  should  understand 
each  other.     Good-night." 

"Well,  good-night  to  you,  anyhow,"  said  Lanty,  with  a 
slight  sigh,  as  he  dropped  the  money  into  his  pocket,  and 
left  the  room. 

"I  have  bought  the  scoundrel  cheap!  "  muttered  Sir  Archy, 
as  the  door  closed. 

"Begorra,  I  thought  he  was  twice  as  knowing!"  was 
Lanty' s  reflection,  as  he  entered  his  own  chamber. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

KERRY    O'lEARY. 

Lantt  Lawler  was  stirring  the  first  in  the  house.  The 
late  sitting  of  the  preceding  evening,  and  the  deep  pota- 
tions he  had  indulged  in,  left  little  trace  of  weariness  on 
his  well-accustomed  frame.  Few  contracts  were  ratified  in 
those  days  without  the  solemnity  of  a  drinking  bout,  and 
the  habits  of  the  O'Donoghue  household  were  none  of  the 
most  abstemious.  All  was  still  and  silent,  then,  as  the 
horse-dealer  descended  the  stairs  and  took  the  path  towards 
the  stable,  where  he  had  left  his  hackney  the  night  before. 

It  was  Lanty's  intention  to  take  possession  of  his  new 
purchase,  and  set  out  on  his  journey  before  the  others  were 
stirring;  and  with  this  object  he  wended  his  way  across 
the  weed-grown  garden,  and  into  the  wide  and  dreary  court- 
yard of  the  building. 

Had  he  been  disposed  to  moralize,  —  assuredly  an  occu- 
pation he  was  little  given  to,  —  he  might  have  indulged  the 
vein  naturally  enough  as  he  surveyed  on  every  side  the 
remains  of  long  past  greatness  and  present  decay.  Beau- 
tifully proportioned  columns,  with  florid  capitals,  supplied 
the  place  of  gate-piers.  Richly  carved  armorial  bearings 
were  seen  upon  the  stones  used  to  repair  the  breaches  in 
the  walls.  Fragments  of  inscriptions  and  half-obliterated 
dates  appeared  amid  the  moss-grown  ruins;  and  the  very 
door  of  the  stable  had  been  a  portal  of  dark  oak,  studded 
with  large  nails,  its  native  strength  having  preserved  it 
when  even  the  masonry  was  crumbling  to  decay.  Lanty 
passed  these  with  perfect  indifference.  Their  voice  awoke 
no  echo  within  his  breast ;  and  even  when  he  noticed  them, 
it  was  to  mutter  some  jeering  allusion  to  their  fallen  estate, 


32  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

rather  than  with  any  feeling  of  reverence  for  what  they 
once  represented. 

The  deep  bay  of  a  hound  now  startled  him,  however. 
He  turned  suddenly  round,  and  close  beside  him,  but  within 
the  low  wall  of  a  ruined  kennel-yard,  lay  a  large  fox-hound, 
so  old  and  feeble  that,  even  roused  by  the  approach  of  a 
stranger,  he  could  not  rise  from  the  ground,  but  lay  help- 
lessly on  the  earth,  and  with  uplifted  throat  sent  forth  a 
long  wailing  note.  Lanty  leaned  upon  the  wall,  and  looked 
at  him.  The  emotions  which  other  objects  failed  to  sug- 
gest, seemed  to  flock  upon  him  now.  That  poor  dog,  the 
last  of  a  once  noble  pack,  whose  melody  used  to  ring 
through  every  glen  and  ravine  of  the  wild  mountains,  was 
an  appeal  to  his  heart  he  could  not  withstand,  and  he  stood 
with  his  gaze  fixed  upon  him. 

"Poor  old  fellow!"  said  he,  compassionately;  "it's  a 
lonely  thing  for  you  to  be  there  now,  and  all  your  friends 
and  companions  dead  and  gone.  Rory,  my  boy,  don't  you 
know  me?  " 

The  tones  of  his  voice  seemed  to  soothe  the  animal,  for 
he  responded  in  a  low  cadence  indescribably  melancholy. 

"That 's  my  boy.  Sure  I  knew  you  did  n't  forget  me;  " 
and  he  stooped  over  and  patted  the  poor  beast  upon  the 
head. 

"The  top  of  the  morning  to  you.  Mister  Lawler,"  cried 
out  a  voice  straight  over  his  head ;  and  at  the  same  instant 
a  strange-looking  face  was  protinided  from  a  little  oue- 
paned  window  of  a  hayloft.     '"Tis  early  you  are  to-day." 

"Ah,  Kerry,  how  are  you,  man?  I  was  taking  a  look  at 
Rory,  here." 

"Faix,  he's  a  poor  sight  now,"  responded  the  other, 
with  a  sigh,  "but  he  was  n't  so  once.  I  mind  the  time  he 
could  lead  the  pack  over  Cubber-na-creena  mountain,  and 
not  a  dog  but  himself  catch  the  scent,  after  a  hard  frost 
and  a  north  wind.  I  never  knew  him  wrong.  His  tongue 
was  as  true  as  the  priest's, — sorrow  lie  in  it." 

A  low  whine  from  the  poor  old  beast  seemed  to  acknow- 
ledge the  praise  bestowed  upon  him;  and  Kerry  con- 
tinued, — 

"It's  truth,    I'm    telling;    and    if    it   wasn't,   it. 's  just 


KERRY  O'LEARY.  33 

himself  would  contradict  me.  Tally-ho!  Rory  —  tally-ho! 
my  ould  boy ;  "  and  both  man  and  dog  joined  in  a  deep- 
toned  cry  together. 

The  old  walls  sent  back  the  echoes,  and  for  some  seconds 
the  sounds  floated  through  the  still  air  of  the  morning. 

Lanty  listened  with  animated  features  and  lit-up  eyes  to 
notes  which  so  often  had  stirred  the  strongest  chords  of  his 
heart,  and  then  suddenly,  as  if  recalling  his  thoughts  to 
their  former  channel,   cried  out,  — 

"  Come  down,  Kerry,  my  man,  —  come  down  here,  and 
unlock  the  door  of  the  stable.  I  must  be  early  on  the  road 
this  morning." 

Kerry  O'Leary  —  for  so  was  he  called,  to  distinguish  him 
from  those  of  the  name  in  the  adjoining  county  —  soon 
made  his  appearance  in  the  court-yard  beneath.  His  toilet 
was  a  hasty  one,  consisting  merely  of  a  pair  of  worn 
corduroy  small-clothes  and  an  old  blue  frock,  with  faded 
scarlet  collar  and  cuffs,  which,  for  convenience,  he  wore  on 
the  present  occasion  buttoned  at  the  neck,  and  without 
inserting  his  arms  in  the  sleeves,  leaving  these  appendages 
to  float  loosely  at  his  side.  His  legs  and  feet  were  bare,  as 
was  his  head,  save  what  covering  it  derived  from  a  thick 
fell  of  strong  black  hair  that  hung  down  on  every  side  like 
an  ill-made  thatch. 

Kerry  was  not  remarkable  for  good  looks.  His  brow 
was  low,  and  shaded  two  piercing  black  eyes,  set  so  closely 
together,  that  they  seemed  to  present  to  the  beholder  one 
single  continuous  dark  streak  beneath  his  forehead.  A 
short  snubby  nose,  a  wide  thick-lipped  mouth,  and  a  heavy 
massive  under-jaw,  made  up  an  assemblage  of  features, 
which,  when  at  rest,  indicated  little  remarkable  or  strik- 
ing; but  when  animated  and  excited,  displayed  the  stran- 
gest possible  union  of  deep  cunning  and  simplicity,  intense 
curiosity  and  apathetic  indolence.  His  figure  was  short, 
almost  to  dwarfishness;  and  as  his  arms  were  enormously 
long,  they  contributed  to  give  that  air  to  his  appearance. 
His  legs  were  widely  bowed,  and  his  gait  had  that  slouch- 
ing, shambling  motion  so  indicative  of  an  education  culti- 
vated among  horses  and  stable-men.  So  it  was,  in  fact; 
Kerry  had  begun  life  as  a  jockey.     At  thirteen  he  rode  a 

VOL.   I.  — 3 


34  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

winning  race  at  the  Curragh,  and  came  in  first  on  the  back 
of  Blue  Blazes,  the  wickedest  horse  of  the  day  in  Ireland. 
From  that  hour  he  became  a  celebrity,  and,  until  too  old  to 
ride,  was  the  crack  jockey  of  his  time.  From  jockey  he 
grew  into  trainer,  —  the  usual  transition  of  the  tadpole  to 
the  frog;  and  when  the  racing  stud  was  given  up  by  the 
O'Donoghue  in  exchange  for  the  hunting-field,  Kerry  led 
the  pack  to  their  glorious  sport.  As  time  wore  on,  and  its 
course  brought  saddening  fortunes  to  his  master,  Kerry's 
occupation  was  invaded ;  the  horses  were  sold,  the  hounds 
given  up,  and  the  kennel  fell  to  ruins.  Of  the  large  house- 
hold that  once  filled  the  castle,  a  few  were  now  retained; 
but  among  these  was  Kerry.  It  was  not  that  he  was  use- 
ful, or  that  his  services  could  minister  to  the  comfort  or 
convenience  of  the  family ;  far  from  it,  —  the  commonest 
offices  of  in-door  life  he  was  ignorant  of,  and,  even  if  he 
knew,  would  have  shrunk  from  performing  them,  as  being 
a  degradation.  His  whole  skill  was  limited  to  the  stable- 
yard,  and  there  now  his  functions  were  unneeded.  It  would 
seem  as  if  he  were  kept  as  a  kind  of  memento  of  their  once 
condition,  rather  than  anything  else.  There  was  a  pride  in 
maintaining  one  who  did  nothing  the  whole  day  but  lounge 
about  the  offices  and  the  court-yard,  in  his  old  ragged  suit 
of  huntsman.  And  so,  too,  it  impressed  the  country 
people,  who,  seeing  him,  believed  that  at  any  moment  the 
ancient  splendor  of  the  house  might  shine  forth  again,  and 
Kerry,  as  of  yore,  ride  out  on  his  thoroughbred,  to  make 
the  valleys  ring  with  music.  He  was,  as  it  were,  a  kind  of 
staff,  through  which,  at  a  day's  notice,  the  whole  regiment 
might  be  mustered.  It  was  in  this  spirit  he  lived,  and 
moved,  and  spoke.  He  was  always  going  about  looking 
after  a  "nice  beast  to  carry  the  master,"  and  a  "real  bit  of 
blood  for  Master  Mark ; "  and  he  would  send  a  gossoon  to 
ask  if  Barry  O'Brien  of  the  bridge  "heard  tell  of  a  fox  in 
the  cover  below  the  road."  In  fact,  his  preparations  ever 
portended  a  speedy  resumption  of  the  habits  in  which  his 
youth  and  manhood  were  spent. 

Such  was  the  character  who  now,  in  the  easy  dishabille 
described,  descended  into  the  court-yard  with  a  bunch  of 
keys  in  his  hand,  and  led  the  way  towards  the  stable. 


KERRY  O'LEARY.  35 

"I  put  the  little  mare  into  the  hack-stable,  Mr.  Lawler," 
said  he,  "because  the  hunters  is  in  training,  and  I  did  n't 
like  to  disturb  them  with  a  strange  beast." 

"Hunters  in  training!"  replied  Lanty,  in  astonishment. 
"Why,  I  thought  he  had  nothing  but  the  gray  mare  with 
the  black  legs." 

"And  sure,  if  he  hasn't,"  responded  Kerry,  crankily, 
"could  n't  he  buy  them  when  he  wants  them?  " 

"Oh,  that 's  it,"  said  the  other,  laughing  to  himself. 
"No  doubt  of  it,  Kerry.     Money  will  do  many  a  thing." 

"Oh,  it's  wishing  it  I  am  for  money!  Bad  luck  to  the 
peace  or  ease  I  ever  seen  since  they  became  fond  of  money. 
I  remember  the  time  it  was,  '  Kerry,  go  down  and  bring 
this,  or  take  that,'  and  devil  a  more  about  it;  and  lashings 
of  everything  there  was.  See,  now!  if  the  horses  could  eat 
peas-pudding  and  drink  punch,  they  'd  got  it  for  askin' ; 
but  now  it's  all  for  saving,  and  saving.  And  sure,  what's 
the  use  of  goold  ?  God  be  good  to  us,  as  I  heard  Father 
Luke  say,  he  'd  do  as  much  for  fifteen  shillings  as  for  fifty 
pounds,  av  it  was  a  poor  boy  wanted  it." 

"What  nonsense  are  you  talking,  you  old  sinner,  about 
saving?  Why,  man,  they  haven't  got  as  much  as  they 
could  bless  themselves  on  among  them  all.  You  need  n't 
be  angry,  Kerry.  It 's  not  Lanty  Lawler  you  can  humbug 
that  way.  Is  there  an  acre  of  the  estate  their  own  now? 
Not  if  every  perch  of  it  made  four,  it  wouldn't  pay  the 
money  they  owe." 

"And  if  they  do,"  rejoined  Kerry,  indignantly,  "who 
has  a  better  right,  tell  me  that?  Is  it  an  O'Donoghue 
would  be  behind  the  rest  of  the  country?  Begorra,  ye 're 
bould  to  come  up  here  and  tell  us  that!  " 

"I  'm  not  telling  you  anything  of  the  kind;  I  'm  saying 
that  if  they  are  ruined  entirely  —  " 

"Arrah!  don't  provoke  me.  Take  your  baste  and  go,  in 
God's  name! " 

And  so  saying,  Kerry,  whose  patience  was  fast  ebbing, 
pushed  wide  the  stable-door,  and  pointed  to  the  stall  where 
Lanty 's  hackney  was  standing. 

"Bring  out  that  gray  mare,  Master  Kerry,"  said  Lanty, 
in  a  tone  of  easy  insolence,  purposely  assumed  to  provoke 
the  old  huntsman's  anger,  —  "bring  her  out  here." 


36  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"And  what  for  would  I  bring  her  out?  " 

"Maybe  I  '11  tell  you  afterwards,"  was  the  reply.  "Just 
do  as  I  sa}^,  now." 

"The  devil  a  one  o'  me  will  touch  the  beast  at  your  bid- 
ding; and,  what 's  more,  I  '11  not  let  yourself  lay  a  finger 
on  her." 

"Be  quiet,  you  old  fool! "  said  a  deep  voice  behind  him. 
He  turned,  and  there  stood  Mark  O'Donoghue  himself,  pale 
and  haggard  after  his  night's  excess.  "Be  quiet,  I  say. 
The  mare  is  his,  — let  him  have  her." 

"Blessed  Virgin!  "  exclaimed  Kerrj^,  "here  's  the  hunting 
season  beginning,  and  sorrow  thing  you  '11  have  to  put  a 
saddle  on,  barrin'  —  barrin'  —  " 

"Barring  what? "  interposed  Lanty,  with  an  insolent 
grin. 

The  young  man  flushed  at  the  impertinence  of  the  insin- 
uation, but  said  not  a  word  for  a  few  minutes ;  then  sud- 
denly exclaimed,  — 

"Lanty,  I  have  changed  my  mind;  I  '11  keep  the  mare." 

The  horse-dealer  started,  and  stared  him  full  in  the  face. 

"Why,  Mr.  Mark,  surely  you  're  not  in  earnest?  The 
beast  is  paid  for,  —  the  bargain  all  settled." 

"I  don't  care  for  that.  There  's  your  money  again.  I  '11 
keep  the  mare." 

"Ay,  but  listen  to  reason.  The  mare  is  mine.  She  was 
so  when  you  handed  me  the  luck-penny,  and  if  I  don't  wish 
to  part  with  her,  you  cannot  compel  me." 

•'Can't  I?"  retorted  Mark,  with  a  jeering  laugh, — 
"can't  I,  faith?  Will  you  tell  me  what's  to  prevent  it? 
Will  you  take  the  law  of  me  ?     Is  that  your  threat  ?  " 

"  Devil  a  one  ever  said  I  was  that  mean,  before !  "  replied 
Lanty,  with  an  air  of  deeply  offended  pride.  "I  never 
demeaned  myself  to  the  law,  and  I  'm  fifteen  years  buying 
and  selling  horses  in  every  county  in  Munster.  No,  Mr. 
Mark,  it  is  not  that;  but  I  '11  just  tell  you  the  truth.  The 
mare  is  all  as  one  as  sold  already;  there  it  is  now,  and 
that 's  the  whole  secret." 

"Sold!  what  do  you  mean?  —  that  you  had  sold  that 
mare  before  you  ever  bought  her?  " 

"To  be  sure  I  did,"  cried  Lanty,  assuming  a  forced  look 


KERRY  O'LEARY.  37 

of  easy  assurance  he  was  very  far  from  feeling  at  the 
moment.  "There  's  nothing  more  common  in  my  trade. 
Not  one  of  us  buys  a  beast  without  knowing  where  the  next 
owner  is  to  be  had." 

"And  do  you  mean,  sir,"  said  Mark,  as  he  eyed  him  with 
a  steady  stare,  —  ''  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  came 
down  here,  as  you  would  to  a  petty  farmer's  cabin,  with 
your  bank-notes,  ready  to  take  whatever  you  may  pitch 
your  fancy  on,  sure  and  certain  that  our  necessities  must 
make  us  willing  chapmen  for  all  you  care  to  deal  in?  Do 
you  dare  to  say  that  you  have  done  this  with  me?''' 

For  an  instant  Lanty  was  confounded.  He  could  not 
utter  a  word,  and  looked  around  him  in  the  vain  hope  of 
aid  from  any  other  quarter,  but  none  was  forthcoming. 
Kerry  was  the  only  unoccupied  witness  of  the  scene,  and 
his  face  beamed  with  ineffable  satisfaction  at  the  turn 
matters  had  taken;  and  as  he  rubbed  his  hands  he  could 
scarcely  control  his  desire  to  laugh  outright  at  the  lament- 
able figure  of  his  late  antagonist. 

"Let  me  say  one  word.  Master  Mark,"  said  Lanty,  at 
length,  and  in  a  voice  subdued  to  its  very  softest  key,  — 
"just  a  single  word  in  your  own  ear."  And  with  that  he  led 
the  young  man  outside  the  door  of  the  stable,  and  whispered 
for  some  minutes  with  the  greatest  earnestness,  concluding 
in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  Kerr}^,  "  And  after 
that,  I'm  sure  I  need  say  no  more." 

Mark  made  no  answer,  but  leaned  his  back  against  the 
wall,  and  folded  his  arms  upon  his  breast. 

"May  I  never,  if  it  is  not  the  whole  truth,"  said  Lanty, 
with  a  most  eager  and  impassioned  gesture;  "and  now  I 
leave  it  all  to  yourself." 

"Is  he  to  take  the  mare?"  asked  Kerry,  in  anxious  dread 
lest  his  enemy  might  have  carried  the  day. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  in  a  deep,  hollow  voice,  as  the 
speaker  turned  away  and  left  the  stable. 

While  Lanty  was  engaged  in  placing  the  saddle  on  his 
new  purchase,  an  operation  in  which  Kerry  contrived  not  to 
afford  him  any  assistance  whatever,  Mark  O'Donoghue  paced 
slowly  to  and  fro  in  the  courtyard,  with  his  arms  folded, 
and  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast;  nor  was  he  aroused 


38  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

from  his  revery  until  the  step  of  the  horse  was  heard  on  the 
pavement  beside  him. 

"Poor  Kittane,"  said  he,  looking  up  suddenly,  "you 
were  a  great  pet.  I  hope  they  '11  be  as  kind  to  you  as  I 
was;  and  they'd  better,  too,"  added  he,  half  savagely; 
"  for  you  've  a  drop  of  the  Celt  in  your  blood,  and  can 
revenge  harsh  treatment  when  you  meet  with  it.  Tell  her 
owner  that  she  is  all  gentleness  if  not  abused ;  but  get  her 
temper  once  up,  and,  by  Jove!  there  's  not  a  torrent  on  the 
mountain  can  leap  as  madly.  She  knows  her  name,  too: 
I  trust  they  '11  not  change  that.  She  was  bred  beside 
Lough  Kittane,  and  called  after  it.  See  how  she  can 
follow."  And  with  that  the  youth  sprang  forward,  and 
placing  his  hand  on  the  top  bar  of  a  gate,  vaulted  lightly 
over;  but  scarcely  had  he  reached  the  ground,  when  the 
mare  bounded  after  him,  and  stood  with  her  head  resting 
on  his  shoulder. 

Mark  turned  an  elated  look  on  the  others,  and  then  sur- 
veyed the  noble  animal  beside  him  with  all  the  pride  and 
admiration  of  a  master  regarding  his  handiwork.  She  was, 
indeed,  a  model  of  symmetry,  and  well  worthy  of  all  the 
praise  bestowed  on  her. 

For  a  moment  or  two  the  youth  gazed  on  her  with  a  flash- 
ing eye  and  quivering  lip,  while  the  mare,  catching  excite- 
ment from  the  free  air  of  the  morning  and  the  spring  she 
had  made,  stood  with  swelled  veins  and  trembling  limbs, 
his  counterpart  in  eagerness.  One  spirit  seemed  to  animate 
both.  So  Mark  appeared  to  feel  it,  as  with  a  bound  he 
sprang  into  the  saddle,  and  with  a  wild  cheer  dashed  for- 
ward. With  lightning's  speed  they  went,  and  in  a  moment 
disappeared  from  view.  Kerry  jumped  up  on  a  broken 
gate-pier,  and  strained  his  eyes  to  catch  them ;  while  Lanty, 
muttering  maledictions  to  himself  on  the  hare-brained  boy, 
turned  everywhere  for  a  spot  where  he  might  view  the 
scene. 

"There  he  goes!"  shouted  Kerry.  "Look  at  him  now; 
he  's  coming  to  the  furze  ditch  into  the  big  field.  See,  see! 
she  does  not  see  the  fence;  her  head  's  in  the  air.  Whew 
—  elegant,  by  the  mortial  —  never  touched  a  hoof  to  it ! 
Murther,  murther!  how  she  gallops  in  the  deep  ground,  and 


KERRY   O'LEARY.  39 

the  wide  gripe  that's  before  her!  Ah,  he  won't  take  it; 
he's  turning  away." 

"I  wish  to  the  Lord  he  'd  break  a  stirrup-leather,"  mut- 
tered Lauty. 

"Oh,  Joseph!"  screamed  Kerry,  "there  was  a  jump  — 
twenty  feet,  as  sure  as  I  'm  living.  Where  is  he  now  ?  ■ —  I 
don't  see  him." 

"May  you  never!"  growled  Lanty,  whose  indignant 
anger  had  burst  all  bounds.  "That  's  not  treatment  for 
another  man's  horse." 

"There  he  goes,  the  jewel;  see  him  in  the  stubble-field; 
sure  it 's  a  real  picture  to  see  him  going  along  at  his  ease. 
Whurroo  —  he  's  over  the  wall.  What  the  devil 's  the  matter 
now?  —  they 're  away."  And  so  it  was;  the  animal  that  an 
instant  before  was  cantering  perfectly  in  hand,  had  now  set 
off  at  top  speed  aud  at  full  stretch.  "See  the  gate  —  mind 
the  gate,  Master  Mark  —  tear  and  ages,  mind  the  gate !  " 
shouted  Kerry,  as  though  his  admonition  could  be  heard 
half  a  mile  away.  "Oh,  Holy  Mary,  he's  through  it!" 
And  true  enough ;  the  wild  and  now  affrighted  beast  dashed 
through  the  frail  timbers,  and  held  on  her  course  without 
stopping.     "He's  broke  the  gate  to  flitters." 

"May  I  never!  if  I  don't  wish  it  was  his  neck,"  said 
Lanty,   in  open  defiance. 

"Do  you,  then?"  called  out  Kerry.  "Why,  then,  as 
sure  as  my  name  's  Kerry  O'Leary,  if  there  's  a  hair  of  his 
head  hurted,  I  '11  —  " 

What  the  threat  was  intended  for  cannot  be  known ;  for 
his  eye  once  more  caught  sight  of  his  idol,  and  he  yelled 
out,  — 

"Take  care  of  the  sheep.  Bad  luck  to  ye  for  sheep, 
ye  're  always  in  the  way.  That 's  the  darling;  'twas  myself 
taught  you  to  have  a  light  hand.  Ah,  Kittane,  you  're 
coming  to  rayson,   now." 

"The  mare  won't  be  worth  sixpence,"  muttered  Lanty. 

"'Twas  as  good  as  a  day's  sport  to  me,"  said  Kerry, 
wiping  his  brow  with  the  loose  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and  pre- 
paring to  descend  from  the  elevation,  for  the  young  man 
now  entered  the  distant  part  of  the  lawn,  and,  at  an  easy 
canter,  was  returning  to  the  stable-yard. 


'  OF    THE  1 

UNIVERSITY  J 


40  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"There!  "  said  Mark,  as  he  flung  himself  from  the  sad- 
dle, —  "there,  Kittane,  it's  the  last  time  you're  likely  to 
have  a  bold  burst  of  it,  or  myself  either,  perhaps.  She 
touched  her  counter  on  that  gate,  Lanty;  but  she  's  nothing 
the  worse  of  it." 

Lanty  grumbled  some  indistinct  mutterings  as  he  wiped 
a  blood-stain  from  the  mare's  chest,  and  looked  sulkily  at 
her  heaving  flanks  and  sides  reeking  with  foam  and  sweat. 

"'Tis  a  darling  you  wor,"  said  Kerry,  patting  her  over 
from  her  mane  to  her  hind-quarters. 

"Faix,  that  cut  is  ten  pounds  out  of  my  pocket  this 
morning,  anyhow,"  said  Lanty,  as  he  pointed  to  the  slight 
scratch  from  which  a  few  drops  of  blood  still  flowed. 

"  Are  you  off  the  bargain,  then  ?  "  said  Mark,  sternly,  as 
he  turned  his  head  round;  for  he  was  already  leaving  the 
spot. 

"I  did  n't  say  so,"  was  the  answer. 

For  a  second  or  two  Mark  seemed  uncertain  what  reply 
to  make,  and  then,  as  if  controlling  his  temper,  he  nodded 
carelessly,  and  with  a  "Good-bye,  Lanty,"  he  sauntered 
slowly  towards  the  house. 

"Well,  Mr.  O'Leary,"  said  Lanty,  in  a  voice  of  affected 
politeness  Irishmen  are  occasionally  very  fond  of  employ- 
ing when  they  intend  great  self-respect,  "  may  I  trouble  you 
to  bring  out  that  hack  of  mine?" 

"  'T  is  a  pleasure,  Mr.  Lawler,  and  no  trouble  in  life,  av 
it  helps  to  get  rid  of  you,"  responded  Kerry,  as  he  waddled 
off  on  the  errand. 

Lanty  made  no  reply.     Perhaps  he  felt  the  encounter  un- 
equal; perhaps  he  despised  his  antagonist.     In  any  case,  ■ 
he  waited  patiently  for  Kerry's  appearance,  and  then,  pass- 
ing his  arm  within  the  bridle  of   each  horse,   he   slowly 
descended  the  avenue  towards  the  high  road. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IMPRESSIONS    OF    IRELAND. 

It  was  not  without  a  feeling  closely  allied  to  disappoint- 
ment that  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers  found  the  advent  to  his 
Irish  estates  uncelebrated  b}"  any  of  those  testimonies  on 
the  part  of  his  tenantry  his  agent,  Captain  Hemsworth,  had 
often  so  graphically  pictured  before  him.  The  post-horses 
were  suffered  to  drag  his  carriage  unmolested  to  its  desti- 
nation ;  there  was  no  assemblage  of  people  to  welcome  — 
not  a  bonfire  to  hail  his  arrival.  True,  he  had  come  totally 
unexpectedly.  The  two  servants  sent  forward  to  prepare 
the  lodge  for  his  reception  only  reached  there  a  single  day 
before  himself.  But  Sir  Marmaduke  had  often  taken  his 
Yorkshire  tenants  as  much  by  surprise,  and  there  he  always 
found  a  deputation  and  a  cortege  of  mounted  yeomen.  There 
were  addresses,  and  triumphal  arches,  and  newspaper  para- 
graphs, and  all  the  innumerable  but  well-known  accompa- 
niments of  those  patronizing  acts  of  condescension  which 
consist  in  the  visit  of  a  rich  man  to  his  own  home.  Now, 
however,  all  was  different.  No  cheering  sounds  broke  the 
quiet  stillness  of  the  deep  valley.  No  troops  of  people  on 
horseback  or  on  foot  filled  the  glen.  The  sun  set,  calm  and 
golden,  behind  the  purple  hills,  unscared  by  the  lurid  glow 
of  a  single  bonfire.  Save  from  an  appearance  of  increased 
bustle,  and  an  air  of  movement  and  stir  around  the  lodge 
itself,  there  was  nothing  to  mark  his  coming.  There,  in- 
deed, servants  were  seen  to  pass  and  repass ;  workmen  were 
employed  upon  the  flower-garden  and  the  shrubbery  walks ; 
and  all  the  indications  of  care  and  attention  to  the  villa  and 
its  grounds  easily  perceptible.  Beyond  these  precincts, 
however,  all  was   still  and  solitary  as   before.     For  miles 


42  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

the  road  could  be  seen  without  a  single  traveller.  The 
mountains  seemed  destitute  of  inhabitants.  The  peaceful 
solemnity  of  the  deep  glen,  along  which  the  cloud  shadows 
moved  slowly  in  procession,  increased  the  sense  of  loneli- 
ness, and  Sir  Marmaduke  already  began  to  suspect  that  this 
last  trial  of  a  residence  would  scarcely  prove  more  fortu- 
nate than  the  previous  ones. 

Age  and  wealth  are  uncomplying  task-masters  —  habit  and 
power  endure  restraint  with  an  ill  grace.  The  old  baronet 
was  half  angry  with  himself  for  what  he  felt  a  mistake, 
and  he  could  not  forgive  the  country  w^hich  was  the  cause 
of  it.  He  had  come  expressly  to  see  and  pronounce  for 
himself  —  to  witness  with  his  own  eyes  —  to  hear  with  his 
own  ears ;  and  yet,  he  knew  not  how  it  was,  nothing  re- 
vealed itself  before  him.  The  very  laborers  who  worked 
in  the  garden  seemed  uncommunicative  and  shy.  Their 
great  respect  and  reverence  he  understood  as  a  cautious 
reserve.  He  must  send  for  Hemsworth  —  there  was  nothing 
else  for  it.  Hemsworth  was  used  to  them,  and  could  ex- 
plain the  mode  of  dealing  with  them.  Their  very  idioms 
required  translating,  and  he  could  not  advance  without  an 
interpreter. 

Not  so  his  daughter.  To  her  the  scene  had  all  the  charm 
of  romance.  The  lone  dwelling  beside  the  blue  lake,  the 
tall  and  peaked  mountains  lost  in  the  white  clouds,  the 
waving  forest  with  its  many  a  tangled  path,  the  bright 
islands  that,  gem-like,  spangled  the  calm  surface  of  the 
water,  realized  many  a  poetic  dream  of  her  childhood,  and 
she  felt  that  visionary  happiness  which  serenity  of  mind, 
united  to  the  warm  imagination  of  early  life,  alone  can 
bestow. 

It  was  a  fairy  existence  to  live  thus  secluded  in  that 
lonely  valley,  where  the  flowers  seemed  to  blossom  for  them 
alone;  for  them  the  summer  birds  sang  their  roundelays, 
and  the  fair  moon  shed  her  pale  light  over  hill  and  stream, 
with  none  to  mark  her  splendor  save  themselves.  Not  these 
thoughts  alone  filled  her  mind.  Already  liad  she  noticed 
the  artless  habits  of  the  humble  peasantry  —  their  gratitude 
for  the  slightest  services,  their  affectionate  greetings,  the 
touching    beauty    of    their    expressions,    teeming   with    an 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  IRELAND.  43 

imagery  she  never  heard  before.  All  appealed  to  her  mind 
with  a  very  different  force  from  what  they  addressed  them- 
selves with  to  her  father's.  Already  she  felt  attracted  by 
the  figurative  eloquence,  so  popular  a  gift  among  the  people. 
The  warm  fervor  of  fancy  she  had  believed  the  attribute 
of  highly  wrought  temperaments  only  she  found  here  amid 
poverty  and  privation ;  flashes  of  bright  wit  broke  from  the 
gloom  of  daily  suffering,  and  the  fire  which  gives  life  its 
energy  burned  brightly  amid  the  ashes  of  many  an  extin- 
guished hope.  These  were  features  she  was  not  prepared 
to  meet  among  a  peasantry  living  in  a  wild,  unvisited  dis- 
trict, and  day  by  day  they  fascinated  her  more  strongly. 

It  was  not  entirely  to  the  difference  between  father  and 
daughter  that  these  varied  impressions  were  owing.  The 
people  themselves  assumed  a  tone  quite  distinctive  to  each. 
Sir  Marmaduke  they  had  always  heard  spoken  of  as  a  stern- 
tempered  man,  whose  severity  towards  his  tenantry  was, 
happily,  tempered  by  the  personal  kindness  of  the  agent. 
Captain  Hemsworth  constantly  impressed  them  with  a  notion 
that  all  harsh  measures  originated  with  his  principal  —  the 
favors  came  from  himself  only.  The  exactions  of  high 
rents,  the  rigorous  prosecutions  of  the  law,  he  ever  asserted 
were  acts  compulsory  with  him,  but  always  repugnant  to  his 
own  better  feelings.  Every  little  act  of  grace  he  accom- 
panied by  an  assurance  that  he  "hoped  Sir  Marmaduke 
might  not  hear  of  it,"  as  the  consequences  to  himself  might 
prove  ruinous.  In  fact,  he  contrived  to  mislead  both  parties 
in  their  estimate  of  each  other,  and  their  first  acquaintance- 
ship, it  could  not  be  supposed,  should  dispel  the  illusion. 
The  peasantry,  however,  were  the  first  to  discover  the  error. 
Long  before  Sir  Marmaduke  had  made  any  progress  in  de- 
ciphering the  mystic  symbols  of  their  natures,  they  had  read 
his  from  end  to  end.  They  scanned  him  with  powers  of 
observation  no  other  people  in  Europe  can  compete  with; 
and  while  he  was  philosophizing  about  the  combined  influence 
of  their  superstitions,  their  ignorance,  and  their  apathy  to 
suffering,  they  were  accurately  speculating  on  all  the  possible 
benefits  which  might  accrue  from  the  residence  amongst  them 
of  so  very  kind-hearted,  but  such  a  mere  simpleton  of  a  man 
as  himself. 


44  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

They  listened  with  sincere  pleasure  —  for  they  love  any 
appeal  to  themselves  —  to  the  precepts  he  so  liberally  be- 
stowed regarding  "industry"  and  ''frugality,"  nor  did  they 
ever  make  the  reply,  which  was  ready  at  every  lip,  that 
industry  cannot  be  practised  without  an  occupation,  nor 
frugality  be  pushed  beyond  the  very  borders  of  starvation. 
No;  they  answered  with  a  semblance  of  concurrence,  ''True 
for  you,  sir;  the  devil  a  lie  in  it  —  your  honor  knows  it 
well."  Or,  when  pushed  home  by  any  argument  against 
their  improvidence  or  recklessness,  the  ever-pleasant  reply 
was,  "Sure,  sir,  it's  the  will  of  God,"  —  a  piece  of  fatalism 
that  rescued  them  from  many  a  difficulty  when  no  other  aid 
was  near. 

"They  are  a  simple  set  of  people,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke, 
as  he  sat  at  his  breakfast  in  the  small  parlor  of  the  lodge 
which  looked  out  upon  the  glen  —  "very  ignorant,  very  bar- 
barous, but  easily  led —  I  see  through  them  clearly." 

"I  like  them  greatly,"  said  his  daughter;  "their  grati- 
tude knows  no  bounds  for  the  slightest  services;  they  have 
a  kind  of  native  courtesy,  so  rare  to  find  amongst  a  peas- 
antry. How  that  poor  fellow  last  night  wished  to  climb  the 
cliff  where  the  eagle's  nest  is,  because  I  foolishly  said  I  had 
never  seen  a  young  eagle." 

"They  are  totally  misunderstood,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke, 
sententiously,  rather  following  out  the  train  of  his  own 
reflections  than  noticing  the  remark  of  his  daughter;  "all 
one  hears  of  their  absurd  reverence  for  the  priest,  or  the 
devoted  adherence  they  practise  towards  the  old  families  of 
the  country,  is  mere  nonsense.  You  heard  how  Dan  laughed 
this  morning  when  I  joked  with  him  about  purgatory  and 
the  saints ;  and  what  a  droll  description  they  gave  of  that 
queer  household  —  the  chieftain  —  what  is  his  name  ?  " 

"The  O'Donoghue." 

"Yes;  I  never  can  remember  it.  No,  no,  they  are  not 
so  bigoted ;  they  are  merely  uninformed.  We  shall  soon  see 
many  changes  among  them.  I  have  written  to  Bradston 
about  the  plans  for  the  cottages,  and  also  the  design  for  a 
school-house ;  and  then  there  's  the  chapel  —  that  reminds 
me  I  have  not  returned  the  priest's  visit:  he  was  here  the 
day  before  yesterday." 


IMPRESSIONS  OF  IRELAND.  45 

*'If  you  like,  we  '11  ride  there;  I  have  heard  that  the  gleii 
is  beautiful  higher  up." 

"I  was  just  going  to  propose  it.  That  juare  seems  quiet 
enough  —  Lawler  says  that  she  has  been  carrying  a  lady 
these  two  years  —  will  you  try  her?  " 

"I  am  longing  to  do  so.  I  am  certain  she  is  gentleness 
itself." 

''Strange  fellow  that  horse-dealer  is,  too,"  said  the  old 
gentleman,  in  half  soliloquy.  "In  no  other  country  in  the 
universe  would  such  a  mere  simpleton  have  taken  to  the 
trade  of  a  jockey.  He  actually  did  not  know  what  price  to 
ask  for  his  horse;  he  left  it  all  to  ourselves.  He'd  soon 
finish  his  career  in  London,  at  that  rate  of  going.  But  what 
have  we  got  here?  —  what,  in  Heaven's  name,  is  all  this?  " 
cried  he  aloud,  as  he  suddenly  rose  from  the  table,  and 
approached  a  sniall  glass  door  that  opened  upon  the  lawn. 

The  object  which  so  excited  his  astonishment  was  an 
assemblage  of  something  more  than  a  hundred  poor  people 
of  every  sex  and  age  —  from  infancy  to  dotage  —  seated  on 
the  grass  in  a  wide  semicircle,  and  awaiting  the  moment 
when  he  should  issue  forth.  Every  phase  of  human  misery 
which  want  and  wretchedness  can  bestow  was  there.  The 
cheeks  of  some  were  pale  and  haggard  with  recent  sickness ; 
others  had  but  a  few  tattered  rags  to  cover  them;  many 
were  cripples,  unable  to  move  without  assistance.  There 
was  wan  and  sickly  childhood,  and  tremulous  old  age;  yet 
the  tone  of  their  voices  showed  no  touch  of  sadness;  they 
laughed  and  talked  with  all  the  seeming  of  light-heartedness ; 
and  many  a  droll  and  merry  saying  broke  from  that  medley 
mass  of  suffering  and  sorrow.  The  sudden  appearance  of 
Sir  Marmaduke  at  the  door  instantaneously  checked  all 
merriment,  and  a  solemn  silence  ensued  as  he  walked  forth 
and  stood  in  front  of  them. 

"What  do  you  want,  my  good  people?  "  said  he  at  length, 
as  none  seemed  disposed  to  open  the  proceedings. 

Had  their  tongues  been  unlocked  by  the  spell  of  a  magi- 
cian the  effect  could  not  have  been  more  instantaneous; 
a  perfect  volley  of  speech  succeeded,  in  which  Sir  Marma- 
duke in  vain  endeavored  to  follow  the  words  of  any  single 
speaker.  Their  rapid  utterance,  their  vehement  gesticula- 
tion, and  a  certain  guttural  mode  of  pronunciation,  quite 


46  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

new  to  him,  made  them  totally  unintelligible,  and  he  stood 
confused,  perplexed,  and  confounded,  for  several  minutes, 
staring  round  on  every  side. 

"  Do,  in  Heaven's  name,  be  quiet,"  cried  he  at  last ;  "let 
one  or  two  only  talk  at  a  time,  and  I  shall  learn  what  you 
mean." 

A  renewal  of  the  clamor  ensued ;  but  this  time  it  was 
a  general  effort  to  enforce  silence,  —  a  process  which  even- 
tuated in  a  far  greater  uproar  than  before. 

' '  Who,  or  what  are  you  ?  "  cried  Sir  Marmaduke,  at  last 
losing  all  temper  at  the  continuance  of  a  tumult  there  seemed 
no  prospect  of  coming  to  an  end. 

"  We're  your  honor's  tenants,  every  one  of  us,"  shouted 
the  crowd  with  one  voice. 

My  tenants  !  "  reiterated  he  in  horror  and  astonishment. 

What!  is  it  possible  that  you  are  tenants  on  my  property? 
Where  do  you  live,  my  poor  old  man?  "  said  he,  addressing 
a  venerable  old  fellow,  with  a  head  as  white  as  snow,  and  a 
beard  like  a  patriarch's. 

"He  does  not  talk  any  English,  your  honor's  worship  — 
he  has  only  Irish ;  he  lives  in  the  glen  beyond,"  said  a 
comely  woman  at  his  side. 

"And  you,  where  do  you  come  from  yourself?" 

"I'm  a  poor  widow,  your  honor,  with  six  childer ;  and 
sorra  bit  I  have  but  the  little  garden,  and  the  grass  of  a 
goat ;  and  sure,  fifteen  shillings  every  half-year  is  more  nor 
I  can  pay,  wid  all  the  scrapin'  in  life." 

Sir  Marmaduke  turned  away  his  head,  and  as  he  did  so, 
his  eye  fell  upon  a  poor  creature,  whose  bloated  cheeks  and 
swollen  figure  denoted  dropsy.  The  man  interpreting  the 
look  into  a  compassionate  inquiry,  broke  forth  in  a  feeble 
voice,  "I  brought  the  nine  shillings  with  me,  yer  honor; 
and  though  the  captain  refused  to  take  it,  I  'm  sure  you 
won't  turn  me  out  of  the  little  place,  for  being  a  trifle  late. 
It 's  the  watery  dropsy  —  glory  be  to  God  !  —  I  'm  under  ; 
but  they  say  I  'm  getting  better." 

While  the  poor  creature  spoke,  a  low  muttering  of  pity 
burst  from  those  around  him,  and  many  a  compassionate 
look,  and  many  a  cheering  word,  was  expressed  by  those 
scarce  less  miserable  than  himself. 

There  was  now   a  certain   kind  of  order  restored  to  the 


IMPRESSIONS   OF   IRELAND.  47 

assembly ;  and  as  Sir  Marmaduke  moved  along  the  line, 
each  in  turn  addressed  his  supplication  or  complaint.  One 
was  threatened  with  a  distress  on  his  pig,  because  he  owed 
two  half-years'  rent,  and  could  only  pay  a  portion  of  the 
debt ;  there  was  a  failure  in  the  potato  crop,  and  a  great 
famine  the  consequence.  Another  was  only  recovering 
from  the  "  shaking  ague,"  and  begged  for  time,  since  if 
he  thrashed  his  oats  now,  they  would  bring  nothing  in 
the  market.  A  third  entreated  liberty  to  cut  his  turf  on  a 
distant  bog,  as  he  was  up  to  his  knees  in  water  in  the  place 
allotted  to  him. 

Some  came  with  odd  shillings  due  on  the  last  rent-day, 
and  anxious  to  get  leave  to  send  their  children  to  the  school 
without  payment. 

Every  one  had  some  favor  to  look  for  —  some  mere  trifle 
to  the  granter;  the  whole  world  to  him  who  asked  —  and, 
for  these,  many  had  come  miles  away  from  homes  far  in 
the  mountains,  a  glimmering  hope  of  succor  the  only 
encouragement  to  the  weary  journey. 

As  Sir  Marmaduke  listened  with  a  feigned  composure  to 
narratives  at  w^hich  his  very  heart  bled,  he  chanced  to 
observe  a  strange-looking  figure  in  an  old  scarlet  uniform, 
and  a  paper  cap,  with  a  cock's  feather  stuck  slantwise  in 
the  side  of  it.  The  wearer,  a  tall,  bony  youth,  with  yellow 
hair,  carried  a  long  wattle  over  his  shoulder,  as  if  it  were 
a  gun,  and  when  the  old  baronet's  eye  fell  upon  him,  he 
immediately  stood  bolt  upright,  and  held  the  sapling  to  his 
breast,  like  a  soldier  presenting  arms. 

"  Shoulder  arms,"  he  cried,  and  as  the  words  were  heard, 
a  hearty  burst  of  laughter  ran  through  the  crowd ;  every 
grief  and  sorrow  was  at  once  forgotten  ;  the  eyes  wet  with 
tears  of  sadness,  were  now  moistened  with  those  of  mirth, 
and  they  laughed  like  those  whose  hearts  had  never  known 
suffering. 

"  Who  is  this  fellow?  "  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  half  doubt- 
ing how  far  he  might  relish  the  jest  like  the  others. 

"  Terry  the  Woods,  your  honor,"  replied  a  score  of  voices 
together. 

"  Terry  the  Woods  !  "  repeated  he,  "  and  is  Terry  a  tenant 
of  mine?" 


48  THE  O'DOXOGHUE. 

"  Faix,  I  am  proud  to  say  I  am  not,"  said  Terry,  groimd- 
ing  his  weapon,  and  advancing  a  step  towards  him;  "  divil 
a  farthin'  of  rent  I  ever  paid,  nor  ever  will.  I  do  have 
my  health  mighty  well  —  glory  be  to  God !  —  and  sleep 
sound,  and  have  good  clothes,  and  do  nothing  for  it;  and 
they  say  I  am  a  fool :  but  which  of  us  is  the  greatest  fool 
after  all?  " 

Another  outbreak  of  laughter  w^as  only  quelled  by  Sir 
Marmaduke  asking  the  reason  of  Terry's  appearance  there 
that  morning,  if  he  had  nothing  to  look  for. 

"I  just  come  to  pay  my  respects,"  said  Terry,  com- 
posedly, "to  wish  you  a  welcome  to  the  country.  I  thought 
that  as  you  might  be  lading  the  same  kind  of  life  as  myself, 
we  would  n't  be  bad  companions,  you  see,  neither  of  us 
having  much  on  our  hands ;  and  then,"  continued  he,  as 
he  took  off  his  paper  bonnet  and  made  a  deep  reverence, 
"I  wanted  to  see  the  young  lady  there,  for  they  tould  me 
she  was  a  born  beauty." 

Miss  Travers  blushed  —  she  was  young  enough  to  blush 
at  a  compliment  from  such  a  source  —  as  her  father  said, 
laughingly,  — 

"  Well,  Terry,  and  have  they  been  deceiving  you?" 

"  No,"  said  he,  gravely,  as  with  steady  gaze  he  fixed  his 
large  blue  eyes  on  the  fair  features  before  him  —  "  no  — 
she  is  a  purty  crayture,  —  a  taste  sorrowful  or  so ;  but  I 
like  her  all  the  better.  I  was  the  same  myself  when  I  was 
younger." 

Terry's  remark  was  true  enough.  The  young  girl  had 
been  a  listener  for  some  time  to  the  stories  of  the  people, 
and  her  face  betrayed  the  sad  emotions  of  her  heart. 
Never  before  had  such  scenes  of  human  suffering  been 
revealed  before  her  —  the  tortuous  windings  of  the  poor 
man's  destiny,  where  want  and  sickness  lie  in  wait  for 
those  whose  happiest  hours  are  the  struggles  against  poverty 
and  its  evils. 

"  I  can  show  you  the  beautifullest  places  in  the  whole 
country,"  said  Terry,  approaching  Miss  Travers,  and  ad- 
dressing her  in  a  low  voice ;  "  I  '11  tell  you  where  the  white 
heath  is  growing,  with  big  bells  on  it,  like  cups,  to  hould  the 
dew.     Were  you  ever  up  over  Keim-an-eigh  ?  " 


IMPRESSIONS   OF  IRELAND.  49 

"  Never,"  said  she,  smiling  at  the  eagerness  of  her 
questioner. 

''I'll  take  you,  then,  by  a  short  cut,  and  you  can  ride 
the  whole  way,  and  maybe  we  '11  shoot  an  eagle.  Have  you 
a  gun  in  the  house  ?  " 

"  Yes,  there  are  three  or  four,"  said  she,  humoring  him. 

"And  if  I  shoot  him  I'll  give  you  the  w^ing-feathers  — 
that 's  what  they  always  gave  their  sweethearts  long  ago ; 
but  them  times  is  gone  by." 

The  girl  blushed  deeply,  as  she  remembered  the  present 
of  young  O'Donoghue,  on  the  evening  they  came  up  the 
glen.  She  called  to  mind  the  air  of  diffidence  and  con- 
straint in  which  he  made  the  proffer,  and  for  some  minutes 
paid  no  attention  to  Terry,  who  still  continued  to  talk  as 
rapidly  as  before. 

"  There,  they  are  filing  off,"  said  Terry  —  "  orderly  time/' 
as  he  once  more  sliouldered  his  sapling  and  stood  erect.  This 
observation  was  made  with  reference  to  the  crowd  of  poor 
people,  whose  names  and  place  of  residence  Sir  Marmaduke 
having  meanwhile  written  down,  they  were  now  returning  to 
their  homes  with  happy  and  comforted  hearts.  "  There 
they  go,"  cried  Terry,  "  and  an  awkward  squad  they  are." 

"  Were  you  ever  a  soldier,  Terry?"  said  Miss  Travers. 

The  poor  youth  grew  deadl}^  pale  —  the  very  blood  forsook 
his  lips,  as  he  muttered,  "  I  was."  Sir  Marmaduke  came 
up  at  the  instant,  and  Terry  checked  himself  at  once,  and 
said,  — 

"  Whenever  you  want  me,  leave  word  at  Mar}^  M'Kelly's, 
in  the  glen  below,  and  I  '11  hear  of  it." 

"  But  don't  you  think  you  had  better  remain  here  with  us? 
you  could  help  in  the  garden  and  the  walks." 

"  No ;  I  never  do  be  working  at  all  —  I  hate  work." 

"  Yes,  but  easy  work,  Terry,"  said  Miss  Travers, 
"  among  the  flowers  and  shrubs  here." 

' '  No  —  I  'd  be  quite  low  and  sorrowful  if  I  was  to  be 
staying  in  one  place,  and  maybe  —  maybe  "  —  here  he  whis- 
pered so  low  as  only  to  be  heard  by  her  —  "  maybe  they  'd 
find  me  out." 

"No;  there's  no  fear  of  that,"  said  she;  "we'll  take 
care  no  one  shall  trouble  you  —  stay  here,  Terry." 

VOL.   I.  —  4 


60  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

*'  Well,  I  believe  I  will,"  said  he,  after  a  pause ;  "I  may 
go  away  when  I  like." 

''  To  be  sure ;  aucl  now  let  us  see  how  you  are  to  be 
lodged,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  who  already,  interested  by 
that  inexplicable  feeling  which  grows  out  of  our  pity  for 
idiocy,  entered  into  his  daughter's  schemes  for  poor  Terry's 
welfare. 

A  small  cottage  near  the  boat-house  on  the  verge  of  the 
lake,  inhabited  by  a  laborer  and  his  children,  offered  the 
wished-for  asylum,  and  there  Terry  was  at  once  installed, 
and  recognized  as  a  member  of  the  household. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

*'  THE    BLACK    VALLEY." 

Although  deferred  by  the  accidents  of  the  morning.  Sir 
Marmaduke's  visit  to  the  priest  was  not  abandoned,  and  at 
length  he  and  his  daughter  set  out  on  their  excursion  up  the 
glen.  Their  road,  after  pursuing  the  highway  for  about  two 
miles,  diverged  into  a  narrow  valley,  from  which  there  was 
no  exit  save  by  the  mode  in  which  it  was  entered.  Vast 
masses  of  granite  rock,  piled  heap  above  heap,  hung  as  it 
were  suspended  over  their  heads,  the  tangled  honeysuckle 
falling  in  rich  festoons  from  these,  and  the  purple  arbutus 
glowing  like  grape  clusters  among  the  leaves.  It  was  a 
mellow,  autumnal  day,  when  the  warmth  of  coloring  is 
sobered  down  by  massive  shadows,  —  the  impress  of  the 
clouds  which  moved  slowly  above.  The  air  was  hot  and 
thick,  and,  save  when  an  occasional  breeze  came,  wafted 
from  the  water,  was  even  oppressive. 

The  silence  of  the  glen  was  profound  —  not  a  bird  was 
heard,  nor  was  there  in  the  vast  expanse  of  air  a  single  wing 
seen  floating.  As  they  rode,  they  often  stopped  to  wonder 
at  the  strange  but  beautiful  effects  of  light  that  glided  now 
slowly  along  the  mountains  —  disappeared  —  then  shone 
again;  the  giant  shadows  seeming  to  chase  each  other 
through  the  dreary  valley.  Thus  sauntering  along  they  took 
no  note  of  time,  when  at  last  the  long  low  cottage,  where 
the  priest  lived,  came  in  sight.  It  was  an  humble  abode, 
but  beautifully  situated  at  the  bottom  of  the  glen  ;  the  whole 
valley  lying  expanded  in  front,  with  its  bright  rivulet  and 
Its  bold  sides  of  granite.  The  cottage  itself  was  little  better 
than  that  of  a  poor  farmer ;  and  save  from  the  ornament  of 
some  creepers,  which  were  trained  against  the  walls,  and 
formed   into  a  deep  porch  at  the  entrance,  differed  in  no 


52  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

respect  from  such.  A  few  straggling  patches  of  cultivation, 
of  the  very  rudest  kind,  were  seen  here  and  there,  but  all 
without  any  eff©rt  at  fence  or  enclosure.  Some  wild  fruit- 
trees  were  scattered  over  the  little  lawn  in  front,  if  the 
narrow  strip  of  grass  that  flanked  the  river  could  be  called 
such,  and  here  a  small  Kerry  cow  was  grazing,  the  only 
living  thing  to  be  seen. 

A  little  well,  arched  over  with  pieces  of  rock,  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  small  wooden  cross,  stood  close  to  the  road- 
side, and  the  wild-thorn  that  overshadowed  it  was  hung  on 
every  side  with  small  patches  of  rags  of  every  color  and 
texture  that  human  dress  ever  consisted  of ;  a  sight  new  to 
the  eyes  of  the  travellers,  who  knew  not  that  the  shrine  w-as 
deemed  holy,  and  the  tree  the  receptacle  of  the  humble  offer- 
ing of  those  whose  sorrows  of  mind  and  body  came  there 
for  alleviation  and  succor. 

Sir  Marmaduke  dismounted  and  approached  the  door, 
which  lay  wide  open ;  he  knocked  gently  with  his  whip,  and 
as  no  answer  to  his  summons  was  returned,  repeated  it 
again  and  again.  He  now  ventured  to  call  aloud,  but  no 
one  came,  and  at  last  both  father  and  daughter  began  to 
suspect  there  might  be  no  one  in  the  house. 

''This  is  most  strange,"  said  he,  after  a  long  pause,  and 
an  effort  to  peep  in  through  the  windows,  half  hid  with 
honeysuckle.  "The  place  seems  totally  deserted.  Let  us 
try  at  the  back,  however." 

As  the  old  baronet  wended  his  way  to  the  rear  of  the 
cottage,  he  muttered  a  half  upbraiding  against  his  daughter 
for  not  complying  with  his  desire  to  have  a  groom  along 
with  them,  —  a  want  which  now  increased  the  inconvenience 
of  their  position.  She  laughingly  defended  herself  against 
the  charge,  and  at  the  same  moment  sprang  down  from  her 
saddle  to  assist  in  the  search. 

"  I  certainly  perceived  some  smoke  from  the  chimney 
as  we  came  up  the  glen,  and  there  must  have  been  some 
one  here  lately,  at  least,"  said  she,  looking  eagerly  on  every 
side. 

"This  is  indeed  solitude,"  muttered  her  father,  as  he 
listened  for  some  minutes,  during  which  the  stillness  had  an 
effect  most  appalling. 


"THE  BLACK  VALLEY."  53 

While  he  was  speaking,  Miss  Travers  had  drawn  near 
to  a  low  latticed  window  which  lay  half  open,  and  as  she 
peeped  in,  immediately  drew  back,  and  beckoned  with  her 
hand  for  her  father  to  approach,  intimating  by  a  cautious 
gesture  that  he  should  do  so  noiselessly.  Sir  Marmaduke 
came  stealthily  to  her  side,  and,  leaning  over  her  shoulder, 
looked  into  the  room.  As  both  father  and  daughter  ex- 
changed glances,  they  seemed  with  difficulty  to  refrain  from 
laughing,  while  astonishment  was  strongly  depicted  on  the 
countenance  of  each.  As  they  continued  to  gaze,  their  first 
emotion  gradually  yielded  to  a  look  of  intense  interest  at 
the  scene  before  them. 

Seated  beside  the  large  turf  fire  of  the  priest's  kitchen,  for 
such  it  was,  was  a  youth  of  some  fifteen  or  sixteen  years. 
His  figure,  light  and  well  proportioned,  was  clad  in  a 
fashion  which  denoted  his  belonging  to  the  better  class, 
though  neglect  and  time  had  made  many  an  inroad  on  the 
costume.  His  brow  was  lofty  and  delicately  formed  —  the 
temples  marked  by  many  a  thin  blue  vein,  which  had  given 
a  look  of  delicacy  to  the  countenance,  if  the  deep  glow  of 
health  had  not  lit  up  his  cheeks,  and  imparted  a  bright 
lustre  to  his  eyes.  He  held  before  him  an  open  volume, 
from  which  he  declaimed  rather  than  read  aloud,  as  it 
seemed,  for  the  special  delight  and  amusement  of  a  small 
ragged  urchin  of  about  nine  years  old,  who,  with  bare  legs 
and  feet,  was  seated  on  a  little  pyramid  of  turf  right 
opposite  to  him. 

Well  might  Sir  Marmaduke  and  his  daughter  feel  sur- 
prise ;  the  volume  was  Homer,  from  which,  with  elevated 
voice  and  flashing  eye,  the  boy  was  reading,  —  the  deep- 
toned  syllables  ringing  through  the  low-vaulted  chamber 
with  a  sweet  but  a  solemn  music.  Contrasted  with  the 
fervid  eloquence  of  the  youth  was  the  mute  wonder  and  rapt 
attention  of  the  little  fellow  who  listened.  Astonishment, 
awe,  and  eager  curiosity  blended  together  in  that  poor  little 
face,  every  lineament  of  which  trembled  with  excitement. 
If  a  high  soaring  imagination  and  elevated  tone  of  thought 
were  depicted  in  the  one,  the  other  not  less  forcibly  realized 
the  mute  and  trembling  eagerness  of  impassioned  interest. 

The  youth  paused  for  a  few  seconds,  and  seemed  to  be 


54  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

reflecting  over  what  he  read,  when  the  boy,  in  an  accent 
broken  with  anxiety,  cried  out,  — 

"Read  it  again.  Master  Herbert.  Oh,  read  it  again. 
It 's  like  the  cry  of  the  big  stag-hound  at  Carrignacurra." 

"It  is  the  language  of  the  gods,  Mickey, — finer  and 
grander  than  ever  man  spoke,"  replied  the  youth,  with 
fervor.  "  Listen  to  this,  here."  And  then,  with  solemn 
cadence,  he  declaimed  some  twenty  lines,  while,  as  if  the 
words  were  those  of  an  incantation,  the  little  fellow  sat 
spell-bound,  with  clasped  hands  and  staring  eye-balls  gaz- 
ing before  him. 

"What  does  it  mean.  Master  Herbert? — what  is  it?'* 
said  he,   in  panting  eagerness. 

"It's  about  a  great  hero,  Mickey,  that  was  preparing  for 
battle.  He  was  putting  on  his  armor,  a  coat  and  a  cap  of 
steel,  and  he  was  belting  on  his  sword." 

"Yes,  yes,"  broke  in  the  little  fellow,  "and  wasn't  he 
saying  how  he  'd  murther  and  kill  all  before  him  ?  " 

"  Right  enough/'  said  the  youth,  laughing.  "  You  guessed 
it  well." 

"Ah,  I  knew  it,"  said  the  boy.  "I  saw  how  you 
clenched  your  fist,  and  your  eyes  wor  shinin'  like  sparks  of 
fire,  and  I  knew  it  was  darin'  them  he  was,  in  the  book  there. 
What  did  he  do  after.  Master  Herbert?  Just  tell  me  that, 
sir." 

*'  He  went  out  in  his  chariot  —  " 

"  Say  it  like  himself  first,  sir,  av  it's  plazin'  to  ye,"  said 
he,  with  a  most  imploring  look  of  entreaty.  "  I  do  be  glad 
to  hear  it  out  of  the  book." 

The  youth,  thus  entreated,  resumed  the  volume,  and  read 
on  for  several  minutes  without  stopping. 

"  Oh,  that's  grand!  "  said  the  boy,  in  a  burst  of  enthu- 
siasm. "  'T  is  for  all  the  world  the  way  the  thunder  comes 
down  the  glen,  — moanin'  first,  far  off  on  the  mountains,  and 
then  swellin'  into  a  big  roar,  and  afterwards  goin'  clap ! 
clap!  like  a  giant  clapping  his  hands.  Did  he  kill  the 
inimy,  master  dear?" 

"No,  he  was  killed  himself,  and  his  body  dragged  over 
the  battle-field." 

"  Wirra,  wirra,  wirra !  "  broke  in  the  child,  while  he  wrung 


"THE   BLACK  VALLEY."  55 

his  hands,  and  burst  forth  into  a  torrent  of  tumultuous 
grief. 

"He  was  killed,  Mickey;  and  listen  to  the  lament  of  his 
friends  for  his  death." 

Scarcely  had  the  youth  read  a  few  lines,  when,  Sir  Marma- 
duke  advancing  a  little  farther,  his  shadow  fell  across  the 
chamber.  The  youth  sprang  up  at  once,  and  came  towards 
them.  The  jQush  of  surprise  —  it  might  be,  too,  of  shame  — 
was  on  his  features;  but  there  was  less  of  awkwardness 
than  many  might  have  exhibited  in  the  manner  of  his 
address,  as  he  said,  — 

''  Father  Luke  is  from  home,  sir.  He  has  been  sent  for  to 
Ballyvourney  —  " 

"  You  are  his  relation,  I  presume?  "  said  Sir  Marmaduke, 
without  letting  him  finish  his  speech. 

"  I  am  his  pupil,"  replied  the  youth,  with  a  tone  in  which 
offended  pride  was  clearly  confessed. 

'^  I  ask  pardon,"  said  the  baronet,  hastily.  "  It  was 
merely  that  I  might  convey  my  respectful  greetings  to  the 
worthy  father  that  I  asked  the  question.  Perhaps  you  will 
allow  me  to  trespass  so  far  upon  you,  and  say  that  Sir 
Marmaduke  Travers  has  been  here." 

While  Sir  Marmaduke  was  speaking,  the  youth's  eyes  were 
fixed  with  a  steadfast  gaze  on  the  features  of  the  young 
girl,  of  whose  presence  till  then  he  seemed  unconscious. 
Fixed  and  earnest  as  his  stare  was,  there  was  nothing  in  it 
of  rudeness,  still  less  of  insult.  It  was  the  unequivocal 
expression  of  astonishment,  the  suddenly  awakened  sense  of 
admiration  in  one,  on  whom,  till  that  very  instant,  beauty 
had  shed  no  fascination.  His  eyes  were  bent  upon  her,  as 
Sir  Marmaduke  thus  finished  speaking,  and  the  old  man 
smiled  as  he  saw  the  wonder-struck  admiration  of  the 
boy. 

''You  wiU  please  to  say  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers,"  re- 
peated he  once  more,  to  recall  the  scattered  senses  of  the 
youth. 

' '  And  his  daughter  ?  "  murmured  the  other,  as  he  still 
continued  to  stare  at  her. 

"Yes,  his  daughter,"  replied  Sir  Marmaduke,  smiling. 
"  May  I  ask  if  there  be  no  shorter  road  back  to  '  the  Lodge* 


56  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

than  that  yonder?  for  I  perceive  it  is  full  two  hours  later 
than  I  suspected." 

"  None  for  those  on  horseback.  The  mountain  path  lies 
yonder,  but  even  on  foot  it  is  not  without  danger." 

''Come,  then,  Sybella;  let  us  lose  no  time.  We  must 
ride  briskly,  to  reach  home  by  daylight.  We  are  late 
enough  already." 

"  Too  late,  if  you  ride  not  very  fast,"  replied  the  youth. 
*'The  rain  has  fallen  heavily  on  the  mountains  this  after- 
noon. See  that  waterfall  yonder,  I  crossed  it  dryshod  at 
daybreak,  and  now  it  fs  a  cataract.  This  river  rises  rapidly, 
and  in  a  single  night's  rain  I  have  seen  the  valley  all  one 
lake." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  then?  "  cried  Miss  Travers,  eagerly, 
for  now  she  felt  self-reproach  at  her  refusal  to  take  a  groom 
along  with  them,  and  was  vexed  with  herself,  as  well  as 
uneasy  for  her  father. 

' '  Keep  the  left  of  the  valley  till  you  reach  the  tall  black 
rock  they  call  'the  Pulpit,' — you  know  it;  at  least  you 
must  have  seen  it  as  you  came  along,  —  then  cross  the 
stream,  it  will  be  fordable  enough  by  that  time,  and  make 
the  best  of  your  way  along  under  the  cliffs  till  you  arrive 
at  the  broken  bridge,  —  the  two  buttresses,  I  mean.  Re- 
cross  the  stream  there,  and  gain  the  meadows,  and  in 
some  hundred  yards  you  are  safe  upon  the  high  road. 
Away  then ;  lose  no  more  time,  now ;  a  minute  is  all  the 
space  between  risk  and  safety."  And  with  these  words  he 
sprang  forward  and  lifted  the  young  girl  to  her  saddle,  ere 
she  had  time  or  forethought  to  decline  the  service. 

"May  we  not  know  the  name  of  our  kind  adviser?" 
asked  Sir  Marmaduke,  as  he  mounted  his  horse. 

"Hark!  there  it  comes!"  cried  the  youth,  pointing 
upwards  to  the  brow  of  a  cliff,  over  which  a  leaping  tor- 
rent had  just  bounded.  "  The  mountain  lakes  are  flooded 
when  Derrybahn  is  spouting.  Away !  away !  if  you  care 
for  safety." 

They  turned  their  horses'  heads  as  he  spoke,  and  with  a 
hasty  "good-bye"  they  spurred  forwards.  Short  as  the 
time  had  been  since  they  travelled  the  same  path,  the  scene 
was   wonderfully   changed ;    the    placid    stream    that   stole 


"THE   BLACK  VALLEY/*  57 

along,  murmuring  over  its  gravelly  bed,  now  rushed  on- 
ward with  a  yellow  current  streaked  with  white  foam ;  the 
tiny  rivulets  that  came  in  slender  drops  upon  the  roadside, 
were  now  become  continuous  streams  of  water,  hurrying  on 
to  bear  then-  tribute  to  the  river.  The  sky  itself  was  black 
and  lowering,  resting  midway  on  the  mountains,  or  drifting 
past  in  heavy  clouds,  while  no  breeze  was  stirring  below. 
The  many  torrents  as  they  fell  filled  the  air  with  a  low 
monotonous  sound,  like  the  noise  of  tree-tops  moved  by  a 
distant  storm. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  a  voice  calling  to  us,"  said  Sir 
Marmaduke,  as  for  the  first  time  they  slackened  their 
pace,  to  clear  several  loose  stones  that  obstructed  the  way ; 
' '  did  you  hear  it  ?  " 

"  I  half  thought  so  too,"  replied  his  daughter ;  "  but  I  can 
see  no  one  near.     There  it  is  again !  " 

They  halted  and  listened ;  but  the  swelling  uproar  of  the 
waterfalls  drowned  every  sound,  and  they  spurred  forward 
once  more,  fearing  to  loiter  longer ;  yet  both  as  they  went 
thought  they  could  trace  the  words  "Come  back!  come 
back!"  but  from  some  strange  dread  of  communicating 
fears  that  might  not  be  real,  neither  told  the  other. 

' '  He  said  the  left  side  of  the  valley ;  but  surely  he  mis- 
took :  see  how  the  water  has  gained  here,  and  the  opposite 
bank  seems  dry." 

"Let  us  follow  the  advice,  father,"  cried  Sybella;  "we 
have  no  guidance  save  his ;  he  could  not  —  would  not 
deceive  us.  Is  it  not  grand !  With  all  its  danger,  I  can 
admire  it." 

As  she  spoke,  a  tremendous  clap  of  thunder  broke  above 
their  heads,  and  made  the  valley  tremble  with  the  sound, 
while,  as  if  by  the  shock,  the  charged  clouds  were  rent 
open,  and  the  rain  descended  in  torrents.  With  the  swoop- 
ing gush  of  the  ocean  spray,  storm-lashed  and  drifted,  the 
rain  came  down,  wrapping  in  misty  darkness  every  object 
around  them.  And  now  the  swollen  cataracts  tore  madly 
down  the  mountain  sides,  leaping  from  crag  to  crag,  and 
rending  the  clayey  soil  in  deep  clefts  and  gashes.  Again 
the  thunder  pealed  out,  and  every  echo  sent  back  the  sound, 
till   the   whole   glen   vibrated   with   the   deafening  clamor. 


58  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Still  they  sped  onward.  The  terrified  horses  strained 
every  limb,  and  dashed  madly  on,  mid  rock  and  rushing 
water  they  went,  now  clearing  at  a  bound  the  course  of 
some  gushing  stream,  now  breasting  the  beating  rain  with 
vigorous  chest. 

The  storm  increased ;  the  howling  wind  joined  with  the 
deep-toned  thunder  into  one  long  continuous  roar,  that 
seemed  to  shake  the  very  air  itself. 

"Yonder!"  said  the  father,  as  he  pointed  to  the  tall 
dark  pinnacle  of  rock  known  by  the  country  people  as 
"  the  Pulpit "  —  "  yonder  !  " 

Sybella  strained  her  eye  to  see  through  the  dense  beat- 
ing rain,  and  at  last  caught  sight  of  the  huge  mass,  around 
whose  summit  the  charged  clouds  w^ere  flying. 

"  We  must  cross  the  river  in  this  place,"  said  the  old 
man,  as  he  suddenly  checked  his  horse,  and  looked  with 
terrified  gaze  on  the  swollen  stream  that  came  boiling  and 
foaming  over  to  where  they  stood,  with  branches  of  trees 
and  fragments  of  rock  rolling  onward  in  the  tide.  "The 
youth  told  us  of  this  spot." 

"  Let  us  not  hesitate,  father,"  cried  the  young  girl,  with 
a  tone  of  firm,  resolute  daring  she  had  not  used  before; 
"remember  what  he  said;  a  minute  may  save  or  ruin  us. 
Great  Heaven  !  what  is  that  ?  " 

A  terrific  shriek  followed  her  words,  and  she  fell  with 
her  head  upon  her  horse's  mane :  a  broad  flash  of  lightning 
had  burst  from  a  dark  cloud,  and  came  with  vi\id  force 
upon  her  eyeballs. 

"Father,  dear  father,  my  sight  is  gone!"  she  screamed 
aloud,  as  lifting  up  her  head  she  rubbed  the  orbs  now 
paralyzed  by  the  shock. 

"My  child!  my  child!"  cried  the  old  man,  with  the 
piercing  shriek  of  a  breaking  heart;  "look  on  me,  look 
towards  me.  Oh,  say  that  you  can  see  me  now  —  my  brain 
is  turning." 

"  O  God,  I  thank  thee!  "  said  the  terrified  girl,  as  once 
more  her  vision  was  restored,  and,  dimly,  objects  began 
to  form  themselves  before  her. 

With  bare  head  and  upturned  eyes  the  aged  man  looked 
up,  and  poured  forth  his  prayer  of  thankfulness  to  Heaven. 


"THE   BLACK  VALLEY."  69 

The  raging  storm  beat  on  his  brow  unfelt;  his  thoughts 
were  soaring  to  the  Throne  of  Mercies,  and  knew  not  earth, 
nor  all  its  sorrows. 

A  clap  of  thunder  at  the  moment  broke  from  the  dense 
cloud  above  them,  and  then,  in  quick  succession,  like  the 
pealing  of  artillery,  came  several  more,  while  the  forked 
lightning  shot  to  and  fro,  and  at  last,  as  if  the  very  earth 
was  riven  to  its  centre,  a  low,  booming  sound  was  heard 
amid  the  clouds ;  the  darkness  grew  thicker,  and  a  crash 
followed  that  shook  the  ground  beneath  them,  and  splashed 
the  wild  waves  on  every  side.  The  spray  sprang  madly  up, 
while  the  roaring  of  the  stream  grew  louder ;  the  clouds 
swept  past,  and  the  tall  Pulpit  rock  was  gone !  Struck  by 
lightning,  it  had  rolled  from  its  centre,  and  fallen  across 
the  river,  the  gushing  waters  of  which  poured  over  it  in 
floods,  and  fell  in  white  sheets  of  foam  and  spray  beyond  it. 

"  God  is  near  us,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
fervor;   "let  us  onward." 

Her  streaming  eyes  turned  on  him  one  look  of  affection, 
—  the  emblem  of  a  heart's  love,  —  and  she  prepared  to 
follow. 

To  return  was  now  impossible ;  the  river  had  already 
extended  the  whole  way  across  the  valley  in  the  rear ;  the 
only  chance  of  safety  lay  in  front. 

"  Keep  by  my  side,  dearest,"  said  the  father,  as  he  rode 
first  into  the  stream,  and  tried  to  head  the  terrified  animal 
against  the  current. 

"  I  am  near  you,  father,  — fear  not  for  me,"  said  she, 
firmly,  her  bold  heart  nerved  to  the  danger. 

For  some  seconds  the  affrighted  horses  seemed  rooted  to 
the  earth,  and  stood  amid  the  boiling  current  as  if  spell- 
bound. A  fragment  of  a  tree,  however,  in  its  course, 
struck  the  flank  of  the  leading  horse,  and  he  sprang  madly 
forward,  followed  by  the  other.  Now  breasting  the  stream, 
now  sinking  to  the  mane  beneath  it,  the  noble  beasts  strug- 
gled fiercely  on  till  near  the  spot  where  the  Pulpit  rock  had 
left  a  space  between  it  and  the  opposite  bank,  and  here  a 
vast  volume  of  water  now  poured  along  unchecked  by  any 
barrier. 

"  To  my  side  —  near  me,  dearest  —  near  me  !  "  cried  the 


60  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

father,  as  his  horse  dashed  into  the  seething  flood,  and  sank 
above  the  crest  beneath  it. 

"  I  cannot  father —  I  cannot!  "  screamed  the  affrighted 
girl,  as,  with  a  bound  of  terror,  her  horse  sprang  back 
from  the  chasm,  and  refused  to  follow.  The  old  man  heard 
not  the  words  —  the  current  had  swept  him  far  down  into 
the  stream,  amid  the  rent  branches  and  the  rolling  rocks  — 
''My  child!  my  child!"  the  only  accents  heard  above  the 
raging  din. 

Twice  did  the  heroic  gu'l  try  to  face  the  current,  but  in 
vam  —  the  horse  plunged  wildly  up,  and  threatened  to  fall 
back,  when  suddenly  through  the  white  foam  a  figure  strug- 
gled on  and  grasped  the  bridle  at  the  head ;  next  moment, 
a  man  leaped  forward  and  was  breasting  the  surge  before 
her. 

"  Head  the  stream  —  head  the  stream,  if  you  can  !  "  cried 
he,  who  still  held  on,  while  the  wild  waves  washed  over 
him.  But  the  poor  horse,  rendered  unmanageable  through 
fear,  had  yielded  to  the  current,  and  was  now  each  moment 
Bearing  the  cataract. 

''Cling  to  me,  now!"  cried  the  youth,  as,  with  the 
strength  of  desperation,  he  tore  the  girl  from  the  saddle, 
while  with  the  other  hand  he  grasped  an  ash  bough  that 
hung  drooping  above  his  head.  As  he  did  so,  the  mare 
bounded  forward  —  the  waves  closed  over  her,  and  she  was 
carried  over  the  precipice. 

"Cling  fast  to  me,  and  we  are  safe!"  cried  the  youth; 
and  with  vigorous  grasp  he  held  on  the  tree,  and,  thus  sup- 
ported, breasted  the  stream  and  reached  the  bank.  Ex- 
hausted and  worn  out,  both  mind  and  body  powerless,  they 
both  fell  senseless  on  the  grass. 

The  last  shriek  of  despair  broke  from  the  father's  heart 
as  the  horse,  bereft  of  rider,  swept  past  him  in  the  flood. 
The  cry  aroused  the  fainting  girl ;  she  half  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  called  upon  him.  The  next  moment  they  were  locked 
in  each  other's  arms. 

"  It  was  he  who  saved  me,  father,"  said  she,  in  accents 
broken  with  joy  and  sorrow;   "  he  risked  his  life  for  mine." 

The  youth  recovered  consciousness  as  the  old  man  pressed 
him  to  his  heart. 


"THE   BLACK  VALLEY."  61 

''  Is  she  safe?"  were  the  first  words  he  said,  as  he  stared 
around  him  vaguely ;  and  then,  as  if  overcome,  he  fell  heav- 
ily back  upon  the  sward. 

A  joyous  cheer  broke  forth  from  several  voices  near,  and, 
at  the  instant,  several  country  people  were  seen  coming  for- 
ward, with  Terry  at  their  head. 

"  Here  we  are,  here  we  are,  and  in  good  time  too,"  cried 
Terry;  "and  if  it  wasn't  that  you  took  a  fool's  advice, 
we'd  have  gone  the  other  road.  The  carriage  is  in  the  glen, 
my  lady,"  said  he,  kneeling  down  beside  Sybella,  who  still 
remained  clasped  in  her  father's  arms. 

By  this  time  some  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  servants  had 
reached  the  spot,  and  by  them  the  old  man  and  his  daugh- 
ter were  assisted  towards  the  high  road,  while  two  others 
carried  the  poor  youth,  by  this  time  totally  unable  to  make 
the  least  exertion. 

''This  brave  boy  —  this  noble  fellow,"  said  Sir  Marma- 
duke,  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  the  pale  high  forehead,  from 
which  the  wet  hair  hung  backwards  —  ' '  can  no  one  tell  me 
who  he  is?" 

''He's  the  young  O'Donoghue,"  replied  a  half-dozen 
voices  together:  "a  good  warrant  for  courage  or  bravery 
any  day." 

"  The  O'Donoghue  !  "  repeated  Sir  Marmaduke,  vainly 
endeavoring  in  the  confusion  of  the  moment  to  recall  the 
name,  and  where  he  had  heard  it. 

"  Ay,  the  O'Donoghue,"  shouted  a  coarse  voice  near  him, 
as  a  new  figure  rode  up  on  a  small  mountain  pony.  "  It 
ought  n't  to  be  a  strange  name  in  these  parts.  Rouse  your- 
self. Master  Herbert,  rouse  up,  my  child,  —  sure  it  is  n't  a 
wettin'  would  cow  you  this  way?" 

"What!  Kerry,  is  this  you?"  said  the  youth,  faintly,  as 
he  looked  around  him  with  half-closed  eyelids.  "Where's 
my  father  ?  " 

"  Faix,  he's  snug  at  the  parlor  fire,  my  darlin',  where 
his  son  ought  to  be,  if  he  was  n't  turning  guide  on  the 
mountains  to  the  enemy  of  his  kith  and  kin." 

These  words  were  said  in  a  whisper,  but  with  an  energy 
that  made  the  boy  start  from  the  arms  of  those  who  bore 
him. 


62  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

''  Here  's  the  pony,  Master  Herbert,  — get  up  on  him,  and 
be  off  at  once ;  sure  there  is  n't  a  blackguard  there,  with 
lace  on  his  coat,  would  n't  be  laughing  at  your  old  clothes 
when  the  light  comes." 

Sir  Marmaduke  and  his  daughter  were  a  few  paces  in 
advance  as  these  words  were  spoken,  the  old  baronet  giv- 
ing directions  for  bestowing  every  care  and  attention  on 
one  he  deemed  his  guest. 

The  boy,  ashamed  and  offended  both,  yielded  to  the  coun- 
sel, and  suffered  himself  to  be  placed  upon  the  saddle. 

"  Now  then,  hould  fast,  and  I  '11  guide  him,"  said  Kerry, 
as,  elbowing  the  crowd  right  and  left,  he  sprang  forward 
at  a  run,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  had  disappeared  in  the 
darkness. 

Su'  Marmaduke  became  distracted  at  the  loss  of  his  bene- 
factor, and  message  after  message  was  despatched  to  bring 
him  back;  but  all  in  vain.  Kerry  and  his  pony  had  al- 
ah'eady  gained  so  much  in  advance  none  could  overtake 
them. 

"To-morrow,  then,  my  child,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke, — 
"to-morrow  will,  I  hope,  enable  me  to  speak  my  gratitude, 
though  I  shall  not  sleep  well  to-night.  I  never  rested  with 
so  heavy  a  debt  unpaid  before." 

And  with  these  words  they  slowly  wended  their  way 
homeward. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

SIR  archy's  temper  tried. 

It  was  strange  that,  although  the  old  man  and  his  tender 
daughter  should  have  sustained  no  other  ill  results  from 
their  adventure  than  the  terror  which  even  yet  dwelt  on  their 
minds,  the  young  and  vigorous  youth,  well  trained  to  every 
accident  of  flood  or  field,  felt  it  most  seriously. 

The  exertions  he  made  to  overtake  Sir  Marmaduke  and 
his  daughter,  followed  by  the  struggle  in  the  swollen  stream, 
had  given  such  a  shock  to  his  frame  that  ere  day  broke  the 
following  morning  he  was  in  a  fever.  The  mental  excite- 
ment, conspiring  with  fatigue  and  exhaustion,  had  brought 
on  the  symptoms  of  his  malady  with  such  rapidity  that  it 
was  evident,  even  to  the  unaccustomed  observers  around 
him,  his  state  was  precarious. 

Sir  Archibald  was  the  first  person  at  the  sick  youth's  bed- 
side. The  varied  fortunes  of  a  long  life,  not  devoid  of 
its  own  share  of  vicissitude,  had  taught  him  so  much  of 
medical  skill  as  can  give  warning  of  the  approach  of  fever ; 
and  as  he  felt  the  strong  and  frequent  pulse,  and  saw  the 
flushed  and  almost  swollen  features  before  him,  he  recognized 
the  commencement  of  severe  and  dangerous  illness. 

Vague  and  confused  images  of  the  previous  night's  adven- 
ture, or  visions  of  the  dark  valley  and  the  tempest,  occupied 
all  the  boy's  thoughts;  and  though  he  endeavored,  when 
spoken  to,  to  preserve  coherency  and  memory,  the  struggle 
was  unavailing,  and  the  immediate  impression  of  a  question 
past,  his  mind  wandered  back  to  the  theme  which  filled  his 
brain. 

"How  was  it,  then?"  said  Sir  Archy,  who,  as  he  sat 
beside  the  sick-bed,  questioned  the  youth  about  his  adven- 
ture.    '-You  said  something  of  a  horse?" 


64  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

*'Yes;  she  was  riding.  Oh,  how  bravely  she  rode  too! 
It  was  fine  to  see  her  as  the  spray  fell  over  her  like  a  veil, 
and  she  shook  the  drops  from  her  hair." 

"  Whence  came  she?     Who  was  the  lady?  " 

"Take  care  —  take  care,"  said  the  youth,  in  a  solemn 
whisper,  and  with  a  steadfast  look  before  him ;  "  Derrybahn 
has  given  warning  —  the  storm  is  coming.  It  is  not  for  one 
so  tender  as  you  to  tempt  the  river  of  the  black  valley." 

"Be  still,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man;  "you  must  not 
speak  thus  ;  your  head  will  ache  if  you  take  not  rest — keep 
quiet." 

"  Yes ;  my  head,  my  head  !  "  muttered  he  vaguely,  repeat- 
ing the  words  which  clinked  upon  his  mind.  "  She  put  her 
arm  round  my  neck  —  There  —  there,"  cried  he,  starting  up 
wildly  in  his  bed,  "  catch  it  —  seize  it  —  my  feet  are  slipping 
—  the  rock  moves  —  I  can  hold  no  longer  ;  there  —  there  !  '* 
And  with  a  low  moaning  sigh  he  sank  back  fainting  on  the 
pillow. 

Sir  Archibald  applied  all  his  efforts  to  enforce  repose 
and  rest;  and  having  partially  succeeded,  hastened  to  the 
O'Donoghue's  chamber,  to  confer  with  the  boy's  father  on 
what  steps  should  be  taken  to  procure  medical  aid. 

It  was  yet  some  hours  earlier  than  the  accustomed  time 
of  his  waking,  as  the  old  man  saw  the  thin  and  haggard  face 
of  Sir  Archy  peering  between  the  curtains  of  his  bed. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  said  he,  in  some  alarm  at  the  un- 
expected sight.  "  Has  Gubbins  issued  the  distress?  Are 
the  scoundrels  going  to  sell  us  out?  " 

"No,  no;  it  is  another  matter  brings  me  here,"  replied 
M'Nab,  with  a  gravity  even  deeper  than  usual. 

"  That  infernal  bond  !  By  God,  I  knew  it;  it  never  left 
my  dreams  these  last  three  nights.  Mark  was  too  late,  I 
suppose  ;  or  they  would  n't  take  the  interest.  And  the  poor 
fellow  sold  his  mare  to  get  the  money !  " 

"  Dinna  fash  about  these  things  now,"  said  M'Nab,  with 
impatience.  "  It 's  that  poor  callant,  Herbert,  —  he  's  very 
ill ;  it 's  a  fever  he  's  caught,  I  'm  thinking." 

"  Oh,  Herbert !  "  said  O'Donoghue,  with  a  tone  of  evident 
relief  that  his  misfortunes  had  taken  any  other  shape  than 
the  much-dreaded  one  of  money  calamity.     "  What  of  him?  " 


UNIVERSITY    i 

OF  / 

i^^ry^LlFOil'fi^^^^^   ARCHY'S   TEMPER  TRIED.  65 

"  He  's  in  a  fever ;  his  mind  is  wandering  already." 

''  Not  a  bit  of  it ;  it 's  a  mere  wetting,  —  a  common  cold  : 
the  boy  fell  into  the  river  last  night  at  the  old  bridge  there ; 
Kerry  told  me  something  about  it;  and  so,  maybe,  Mark 
may  reach  Cork  in  good  time  after  all." 

"I  am  no  speaking  of  Mark  just  now,"  said  M'Nab, 
tartly,  "  but  of  the  otlier  lad,  wha  may  be  dangerously  ill, 
if  something  be  nae  done  quickly." 

"Then  send  for  Roach.  Let  one  of  the  boys  saddle  a 
horse  and  ride  over  to  Killarney.  Oh!  I  was  forgetting; 
let  a  fellow  go  off  on  foot,  he  '11  get  there  before  evening. 
It  is  confoundedly  hatd  to  have  nothing  in  the  stables  even 
to  mount  a  messenger.  I  hope  Mark  may  be  able  to  man- 
age matters  in  Cork.  Poor  fellow,  he  hates  business  as 
much  as  I  do  myself." 

Sir  Archy  did  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  this  ram- 
bling reply.  Long  before  it  was  over,  he  was  halfway  down 
stairs  in  search  of  a  safe  messenger  to  despatch  to  Killarney 
for  Doctor  Roach,  muttering  between  his  teeth  as  he 
went,  — 

"We  hae  nae  muckle  chance  of  the  doctor  if  we  canna 
send  the  siller  to  fetch  him  as  well  as  the  flunkie  —  eh,  sirs? 
He  's  a  cannie  chiel  is  auld  Roach,  and  can  smell  a  fee  as 
soon  as  scent  a  fever."  And  with  this  sensible  reflection  he 
proceeded  on  his  way. 

Meanwhile  the  O'Donoghue  himself  had  summoned  energy 
enough  to  slip  on  an  old  and  ragged  dressing-gown,  and  a 
pair  of  very  unlocomotive  slippers,  with  which  attired  he 
entered  the  sick  boy's  room. 

"  Well,  Herbert,  lad,"  said  he,  drawing  the  curtains 
back,  and  suffering  the  gray  light  to  fall  on  the  youth's 
features,  "what  is  the  matter?  Your  uncle  has  been 
routing  me  up  with  a  story  about  you." 

He  ceased  suddenly,  as  his  eyes  beheld  the  change  a  few 
hours  had  wrought  in  the  boy's  appearance.  His  eyes,  deep- 
buried  in  their  orbits,  shone  with  an  unnatural  lustre ;  his 
cheeks  were  pale  and  sunken,  save  where  a  bright  patch  of 
florid  red  marked  the  centre  of  each ;  his  lips  were  dry  and 
shrivelled,  and  had  a  slight  tremulous  motion,  as  if  he  were 
mutterinof  to  himself. 


66  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

^' Poor  fellow,"  said  the  father,  "how  dreadfull  ill  he 
looks.     Have  you  any  pain,  my  bo}^?" 

The  boy  knew  the  voice,  and  recognized  the  kindly  ac- 
cent, but  could  not  hear  or  understand  the  words ;  and,  as 
his  eyes  glistened  with  delight,  he  stole  his  burning  hand 
from  beneath  the  bedclothes,  and  held  it  out,  all  trembling, 
towards  his  father. 

' '  How  sudden  this  has  been  —  you  were  quite  well  last 
night,  Herbert !  " 

"  Last  night!  "  echoed  the  boy,  with  a  strange  emphasis 
on  the  only  words  he  had  caught  up. 

"No,  by  the  way,  it  was  the  night  before,  I  mean.  I 
did  not  see  you  last  night;  but,  cheer  up,  my  dear  boy; 
we  've  sent  for  Roach,  —  he  '11  put  you  to  rights  at  once.  I 
hope  Mark  may  reach  home  before  the  doctor  goes.  I'd 
like  to  have  his  advice  about  that  strain  in  the  back." 

These  last  words  were  uttered  in  soliloquy,  and  seemed  to 
flow  from  a  train  of  thought  very  different  from  that  aris- 
ing from  the  object  before  him.  Sunk  in  these  reflections, 
he  drew  near  the  window,  which  looked  out  upon  the  old 
court-yard  behind  the  house,  and  where  now  a  very  con- 
siderable crowd  of  beggars  had  assembled  to  collect  the 
alms  usually  distributed  each  morning  from  the  kitchen. 
Each  was  provided  with  an  ample  canvas  bag,  worn  over 
the  neck  by  a  string,  and  capable  of  containing  a  suffi- 
ciency of  meal  or  potatoes,  the  habitual  offering,  to  sup- 
port the  owner  for  a  couple  of  days  at  least.  They  were 
all  busily  engaged  in  stowing  away  the  provender  of  various 
sorts  and  kinds,  as  luck,  or  the  preference  of  the  cook, 
decided,  laughing  or  grumbling  over  their  portions,  as  it 
might  be,  when  Sir  Archibald  M'Nab  hurriedly  presented 
himself  in  the  midst  of  them,  —  an  appearance  which  seemed 
to  create  no  particular  satisfaction,  if  one  were  to  judge 
from  the  increased  alacrity  of  their  movements,  and  the 
evident  desire  they  exhibited  to  move  off. 

The  O'Donoghue  laughed  as  he  witnessed  the  discomfiture 
of  the  ragged  mob,  and  let  down  the  window-sash  to  watch 
the  scene. 

"  'T  is  going  we  are.     God  be  good  to  us !  " 

"  Ye  needn't  be  cursing  that  way,"  said  an  old  hag,  with 
a  sack  on  her  back  larsfe  enoug-h  to  contain  a  child. 


SIR  ARCHY'S   TEMPER   TRIED. 


67 


"  Eyah !  the  Lord  look  down  on  the  poor!  "  said  a  little 
fat  fellow,  with  a  flannel  nightcap  and  stockings  without  any 
feet ;   "  there 's  no  pity  now  at  all,  at  all." 

"  The  heavens  be  your  bed,  anyway,"  said  a  hard-featured 
little  woman,  with  an  accent  that  gave  the  blessing  a  very 
different  signification  from  the  mere  words. 


''  Blessed  Joseph  I  sure  it  is  n't  robbers  and  thieves  we  are, 
that  ye  need  hunt  us  out  of  the  place." 

Such  were  the  exclamations  on  every  side,  intermingled 
with  an  under-growl  of  the  "Scotch  naygur!"  —  "The 
ould  scrape-gut !  "  and  other  equally  polite  and  flattering 
epithets. 

"  This  is  no  a  place  for  ye,  ye  auld  beldames  and  black- 
guards.    Awa'  wi'  ye  —  awa'  wi'  ye  at  once  !  " 

"Them's  the  words  ye '11  hear  in  heaven  yet,  darlint!" 
said  an  old   fiend  of  a  woman,  with  one  eye,  and  a  mouth 


68  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

garnished  by  a  single  tooth.     "Them's  the  very  words  St 
Peter  will  spake  to  yourself." 

"Begorra!  he'll  not  be  strange  in  the  other  place,  any- 
how," muttered  another.  " 'T  is  there  he'll  meet  most  of 
his  countrymen." 

This  speech  was  the  signal  for  a  general  outburst  of 
laughter. 

"  Awa'  wi'  ye,  ye  ragged  deevils  !  — ye 'r  a  disgrace  to  a 
Christian  country !  " 

"  Throth,  we  wear  breeches  an  us,"  said  an  old  fellow  on 
crutches  ;  ' '  and  sure  I  hear  that 's  more  nor  they  do  in  the 
parts  your  honor  comes  from." 

Sir  Archy's  passion  boiled  over  at  this  new  indignity. 
He  stormed  and  swore,  with  all  the  impetuous  rage  of  one 
beside  himself  with  passion;  but  the  effect  on  his  hearers 
was  totally  lost.  The  onl}^  notice  they  took  was  an  occa- 
sional exclamation  of  — 

"There  it  is,  now!"  "Oh,  blessed  Father!  hear  what 
he  says!"  "Oh,  holy  Mother!  isn't  he  a  terrible  man?" 
—  comments  by  no  means  judiciously  adapted  to  calm  his 
irritation.  Meanwhile,  symptoms  of  evacuating  the  territory 
were  sufficiently  evident.  Cripples  were  taken  on  the  backs 
and  shoulders  of  their  respective  friends  ;  sacks  and  pouches 
were  slung  over  the  necks.  Many  a  preparatory  shake  of 
the  rags  showed  that  the  wearer  was  getting  ready  for  the 
road,  when  Sir  Archy,  suddenly  checking  himself  in  the  full 
torrent  of  his  wrath,  cried  out,  — 

"  Bide  a  wee  —  stay  a  minit,  ye  auld  beasties,  —  I  hae  a 
word  to  say  to  some  amang  ye." 

The  altered  tone  of  voice  in  which  he  spoke  seemed  at 
once  to  have  changed  the  whole  current  of  popular  feeling ; 
for  now  they  all  chimed  in  with,  — 

"  Arrah !  he's  a  good  man,  after  all.  Sure,  'tis  only  a 
way  he  has,"  —  sentiments  which  increased  in  fervency  as 
Sir  Archibald  took  a  tolerably  well-filled  purse  from  his 
pocket,  and  drew  out  some  silver  into  his  hand,  many 
exclaiming,  — 

"  'T  is  the  kind  heart  often  has  the  hard  word ;  and  sure 
ye  can  see  in  his  face  he  is  n't  cruel." 

"  Hear  till  me,"  cried  Sir  Archy,  aloud,  as  he  held  up  a 


SIR  ARCHY'S   TEMPER   TRIED.  69 

shilling  before  their  wistful  eyes,  "there's  mou}^  a  ane 
among  ye  able  to  earn  siller.  Which  o'  ye,  now,  will  step 
down  to  Killarney,  and  tell  the  doctor  he 's  wanted  up  here 
wi'  a'  despatch?  Ye  maun  go  fast  and  bring  him,  or  send 
him  here  to-night ;  and  if  ye  do,  I  '11  gie  ye  this  piece  o' 
siller  money  when  ye  come  back." 

A  general  groan  from  that  class  whose  age  and  infirmities 
placed  them  out  of  the  reach  of  competitorship  met  this 
speech,  while  from  the  more  able  section  a  not  less  unequivo- 
cal expression  of  discontent  broke  forth. 

"  Down  to  Killarney  !  "  cried  one.  "  Begorra !  I  wonder 
ye  did  n't  say  Kenmare,  when  ye  war  about  it —  the  devil  a 
less  than  ten  miles  it  is." 

"Eyah!  I'll  like  to  see  my  own  four  bones  going  the 
same  road  ;  sorra  a  house  the  whole  way  where  's  there  's  a 
drop  of  milk  or  a  pratie." 

"That's  the  charity  to  the  poor,  I  suppose,"  said  the  fat 
fellow  of  the  nightcap.  "  'T  is  wishing  it,  I  am,  the  same 
charity." 

"  We  wor  to  bring  the  doctor  on  our  back,  I  hope,"  said 
a  cripple  in  a  bowl. 

' '  Did  ever  man  hear  or  see  the  like  o'  this  ?  "  exclaimed 
M'Nab,  as  with  uplifted  hands  he  stared  in  wonderment 
around  him.     "  One  would  na  believe  it." 

"  True  for  you,  honey,"  joined  in  one  of  the  group. 
"  I  'm  fifty-three  years  on  the  road,  and  I  never  heerd  of  any 
one  askin'  us  to  do  a  hand's  turn  afore." 

"  Out  of  my  sight,  ye  worthless  ne'er-do-weels;  awa'  wi' 
ye  at  once  and  forever.  I  '11  send  twenty  miles  round  the 
country  but  I  '11  hae  a  mastiff  here  'ill  worry  the  first  o'  ye 
that  dares  to  come  near  the  house." 

"  On  my  conscience,  it  will  push  you  hard  to  find  a 
wickeder  baste  nor  yourself." 

"  Begorra,  he  won't  be  uglier,  anyhow." 

And  with  these  comments,  and  the  hearty  laughter  that 
followed,  the  tattered  and  ragged  group  defiled  out  of  the 
yard  with  all  the  honors  of  war,  leaving  Sir  Archy  alone, 
overwhelmed  with  astonishment  and  anger. 

A  low  chuckling  laugh,  as  the  sash  was  closed  overhead, 
made    him   look    up,  and    he    just    caught   a   glimpse     of 


70  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

O'Donoghue  as  he  retired  from  the  window;  for  in  his 
amusement  at  the  scene  the  old  man  forgot  the  sick  boy 
and  all  about  him,  and  only  thought  of  the  ridiculous  in- 
terview he  had  witnessed. 

''Hisain  father  —  his  ain  father!"  muttered  Sir  Archy, 
as  with  his  brows  contracted  and  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back,  he  ruminated  in  sadness  on  all  he  saw.  '*  What 
brings  3^e  back  again,  ye  lazy  scoundrels?  How  dare  ye 
venture  in  here  again?  " 

This  not  over-courteous  interrogatory  was  addressed  to 
poor  Terry  the  Woods,  who,  followed  by  one  of  Sir  Marma- 
duke's  footmen,  had  at  that  instant  entered  the  yard. 

"What  for  are  ye  come,  1  say?  and  what's  the  flunkie 
wanting  beside  ye?  " 

Terry  stood  thunderstruck  at  the  sudden  outbreak  of 
temper,  and  turned  at  once  to  the  responsible  individual, 
to  whom  he  merely  acted  as  guide,  to  make  a  reply. 

"  And  are  ye  tramping  it  too?  "  said  M'Nab,  with  a  sneer- 
ing accent  as  he  addressed  the  footman.  "  Methinks  ye 
might  hae  a  meal's  meat  out  o'  the  goold  lace  on  your  hat, 
and  look  mair  like  a  decent  Christian  afterwards.  Ye  'r  out 
of  place,  maybe." 

These  last  words  were  delivered  in  an  irony  to  which  a 
tone  of  incredulity  gave  all  the  sting ;  and  these  only  were 
intelligible  to  the  sleek  and  well-fed  individual  to  whom  they 
were  addressed. 

In  all  likelihood,  had  he  been  charged  with  felony  or  high- 
way robbery,  his  self-respect  might  have  sustained  his 
equanimity ;  any  common  infraction  of  the  statute  law 
might  have  been  alleged  against  him  without  exciting  an 
undue  indignation ;  but  the  contemptuous  insinuation  of 
being  "  out  of  place  "  —  that  domestic  outlawry  —  was  more 
than  human  endurance  could  stomach ;  nor  was  the  insult 
more  palatable  coming  from  one  he  believed  to  be  a  servant 
himself.  It  was  therefore  with  the  true  feeling  of  outraged 
dignity  he  replied,  — 

' '  Not  exactly  out  of  place  jest  now,  friend ;  though,  if 
they  don't  treat  you  better  than  your  looks  show,  I  'd 
recommend  you  trying  for  a  new   situation." 

Of  a  verity,  Sir  Archibald's  temper  was  destined  to  sore 


SIR   ARCHY'S   TEMPER  TRIED.  71 

trials  that  morning ;  but  this  was  a  home  thrust,  for  which 
no  forethought  could  have  prepared  him. 

"I  hope  I  am  no  going  to  lose  my  senses,"  said  he,  as 
he  pressed  his  hands  on  either  side  of  his  temples.  "May 
the  Lord  keep  me  from  that  worst  of  a'  human  calamities." 

This  pious  wish,  uttered  with  real,  unfeigned  fervency, 
seemed  to  act  like  a  charm  upon  the  old  man's  temper,  as 
though  the  very  appeal  had  suggested  a  calmer  and  more 
patient  frame  of  mind.  It  was,  then,  with  all  the  dignity 
of  his  natural  character,  when  unclouded  by  momentary 
flashes  of  passion,  that  he  said,  — 

"  What  may  be  your  errand  here  this  morning?  " 

Few  and  simple  as  the  words  were,  there  was  that  in 
their  quiet,  unassuming  delivery,  which  in  a  second  recalled 
the  footman  to  a  full  consciousness  of  his  impertinent  mis- 
take. He  saw  at  once  the  immeasurable  gulf,  impassable 
to  any  effort  of  assumption  or  insolence,  which  separated 
them,  and  with  the  ready  tact  of  his  calling  he  respectfully 
took  off  his  hat,  and  held  forth  a  sealed  letter,  without  one 
word  of  reply  or  apology. 

Sir  Archibald  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  having  carefully 
read  the  superscription,  turned  back  towards  the  house  with- 
out speaking. 

"  Here  is  a  letter  for  you,  O'Donoghue,"  said  he,  as  he 
entered  the  parlor,  where  the  chief  was  alreadj^  seated  at 
his  breakfast,  while  Kerry  O'Leary,  a  short  distance  behind 
his  chair,  was  relating  the  circumstance  of  the  last  night's 
adventure. 

"  Is  it  from  Mark?"  said  the  old  man,  eagerly;  and  then 
glancing  at  the  writing,  he  threw  it  from  him  in  disappoint- 
ment, and  added,  *'I  am  getting  very  uneasy  about  that 
lad." 

"Had  ye  no  better  read  the  letter?  the  messenger  wha 
brought  it  seems  to  expect  an  answer,"  interposed  M'Nab. 

"Messenger!  —  eh  —  not  by  post?  Is  Hemsworth  come 
back?"  exclaimed  O'Donoghue,  with  an  evident  degree  of 
fear  in  his  manner. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Kerry,  guessing  to  what  topic  his  master's 
thoughts  were  turning;  "the  captain  is  not  coming,  they 
say,  for  a  month  or  six  weeks  yet." 


72  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  muttered  O'Donoghue  ;  "  that  scoundrel 
never  leaves  me  a  night's  rest  when  I  hear  he  's  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. AVill  you  see  what's  in  it,  Archy?  My  head  is 
quite  confused  this  morning ;  I  got  up  three  hours  before 
my  time." 

Sir  Archibald  resumed  his  spectacles,  and  broke  the  seal. 
The  contents  were  at  some  length,  it  would  seem,  for  as  he 
perused  the  letter  to  himself  several  minutes  elapsed. 

"  Go  on,  Kerry,"  said  O'Donoghue;  ''  I  want  to  hear  all 
about  this  business." 

"Well,  I  believe  j^our  honor  knows  the  most  of  it  now; 
for  when  I  came  up  to  the  glen  they  were  all  safe  over,  barrin' 
the  mare ;  poor  Kittane,  she  was  carried  down  the  falls,  and 
they  took  her  up  near  a  mile  below  the  old  bridge,  stone 
dead  ;  Master  Mark  will  fret  his  heart  out  when  he  hears  it." 

"  This  is  a  very  polite  note,"  interposed  Sir  Archy,  as  he 
laid  the  letter  open  before  him,  "  from  Sir  Marmaduke 
Travers,  begging  to  know  when  he  may  be  permitted  to  pay 
his  personal  respects  to  you,  and  express  his  deep  and  grate- 
ful sense  —  his  own  words  —  of  3'our  son's  noble  conduct  in 
rescuing  his  daughter  at  the  hazard  of  his  life.  It  is  written 
with  much  modesty  and  good  sense,  and  the  writer  canna  be 
other  than  a  true  gentleman." 

"  Travers  —  Travers,"  repeated  O'Donoghue;  "  why 
that 's  the  man  himself.  It  was  he  bought  the  estate  ;  he  's 
Hemsworth's  principal." 

"And  if  he  be,"  replied  M'Nab,  "canna  an  honest  man 
hae  a  bad  servant?  There  's  nothing  about  Hemsworth  here. 
It's  a  ceevil  demand  from  one  gentleman  to  anither." 

"So  it  is,  then.  Sir  Marmaduke  that  has  been  staying  at 
the  lodge  these  some  weeks  past.  That  was  Mark's  secret 
—  poor  dear  boy,  he  would  n't  tell  me,  fearing  it  would 
annoy  me.     Well,  what  is  it  he  wants?" 

"  To  visit  you,  O'Donoghue." 

"What  nonsense!  the  mischief's  done  already.  The 
mortgage  is  foreclosed ;  and  as  for  Carrignacurra,  they  can 
do  nothing  before  the  next  term.     Swaby  says  so,  at  least." 

"  Can  3^e  no  comprehend?  It  is  no  law  document,  but  a 
ceevil  way  to  make  your  acquaintance.  Sir  Marmaduke 
wad  pay  his  respects  to  ye." 


SIR  ARCHY'S   TEMPER   TRIED.  73 

"  "Well,  let  him  come,"  said  O'Donoghue,  laughing  ;  *'he  's 
sure  to  find  me  at  home.  The  sheriff  takes  care  of  that  for 
him.  Mark  will  be  here  to-morrow  or  next  day  ;  I  hope  he 
won't  come  before  that.'' 

"  The  answer  must  be  a  written  one,"  said  M'Nab ;  "it 
wadna  be  polite  to  gie  the  flunkie  the  response." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Archy,  so  that  I  am  not  asked  to 
indite  it.  Miles  O'Donoghue  are  the  only  words  I  have 
written  for  many  a  year ;  "  and  he  added,  with  a  half  bitter 
laugh,  "  it  would  have  been  as  well  for  poor  Mark  if  I  had 
forgotten  even  that  same." 

Sir  Archibald  retired  to  write  the  answer,  with  many  a 
misgiving  as  to  the  substance  of  the  epistle;  for,  while 
deeply  gratified  at  heart  that  his  favorite,  Herbert,  had 
acquitted  himself  so  nobly,  his  own  pride  was  mortified,  as 
he  thought  over  the  impressions  a  visit  to  the  O'Donoghue 
household  might  have  on  the  mind  of  a  "  haughty  Southern," 
for  such  in  his  soul  he  believed  him. 

There  was  no  help  for  it,  however ;  the  advances  were 
made  in  a  spirit  s6  very  respectful,  every  line  breathed  such 
an  evident  desire,  on  the  writer's  part,  to  be  well  received, 
that  a  refusal,  or  even  a  formal  acceptance  of  the  proffered 
visit,  was  out  of  the  question.  His  reply,  then,  accepted 
the  intended  honor  with  a  profession  of  satisfaction ;  apol- 
ogizing for  his  omission  in  calling  on  Sir  Marmaduke,  on  the 
score  of  ill-health,  and  concluded  by  a  few  words  about 
Herbert,  for  whom  many  inquiries  were  made  in  the  letter. 
This,  written  in  the  clear,  but  quaint  old-fashioned  characters 
of  the  writer's  time,  and  signed  "O'Donoghue,"  was  care- 
fully folded,  and  enclosed  in  a  large  square  envelope,  and 
with  it  in  his  hand  M'Nab  re-entered  the  breakfast-room. 

"  "Wad  you  like  to  hear  the  terms  of  the  response, 
O'Donoghue,  before  I  seal  it  up?"  asked  Su*  Archy,  with 
an  air  of  importance. 

"No,  no;  lam  sure  it  is  all  right  and  proper.  You 
mentioned,  of  course,  that  Mark  was  from  home,  but  we 
were  expecting  him  back  ever}^  clay." 

"I  didna  make  ony  remark  o'  that  kind.  I  said  ye  wad 
be  happy  to  see  him,  and  felt  proud  at  the  honor  of  making 
acquaintance  wi'  him." 


74  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"  Damn  me  if  I  do,  then,  Archy,"  broke  in  the  old  man, 
roughly.  "For  so  great  a  stickler  for  truth  as  yourself, 
the  words  were  somewhat  out  of  place.  I  neither  feel  pride 
nor  honor  on  the  subject.  Let  it  go,  however,  and  there  's 
an  end  to  it." 

"I've  despatched  a  messenger  for  Roach  to  Killarney; 
that  bit  of  a  brainless  body,  Terry,  is  gone  by  the  mountain 
road,  and  we  may  expect  the  doctor  here  to-night."  And 
with  these  words  Sir  Archy  departed  to  send  off  his  epistle, 
and  the  O'Donoghue  leaned  back  in  his  easy-chair,  sorely 
wearied  and  worried  by  the  fatigues  of  the  day. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    HOUSE    OF    SICKNESS. 

How  painfully  is  the  sense  of  severe  illness  diffused  through 
every  part  of  a  household !  How  solemn  is  the  influence 
it  sheds  on  every  individual,  and  every  object :  the  noiseless 
step,  the  whispered  words,  the  closed  curtains,  the  interrup- 
tion to  the  ordinary  avocations  of  life,  or  the  performance 
of  them  in  gloom  and  sadness !  When  wealth  and  its  appli- 
ances exist,  these  things  take  all  the  features  of  extreme 
care  and  solicitude  for  the  sufferer ;  all  the  agencies  of  kind- 
ness and  skill  are  brought  into  active  exertion  to  minister  to 
the  rich  man  in  sickness :  but  when  poverty  and  its  evils 
are  present,  when  the  struggle  is  against  the  pressure  of 
want,  as  well  as  the  sufferings  of  malady,  the  picture  is  in- 
deed a  dark  one. 

The  many  deficiencies  in  comfort  which  daily  habit  has 
learned  to  overlook,  the  privations  which  in  the  active  con- 
flict with  the  world  are  forgotten,  now  come  forth  in  the 
solitude  of  the  sick  house  to  affright  and  afflict  us,  and  we 
sorrow  over  miseries  long  lost  to  memory  till  now. 

Never  since  the  fatal  illness  which  left  O'Donoghue  a 
widower  had  there  been  anything  like  dangerous  sickness 
in  the  house ;  and  like  most  people  who  have  long  enjoyed 
the  blessings  of  uninterrupted  iiealth,  they  had  no  thought 
for  such  a  calamity,  nor  deemed  it  among  the  contingencies 
of  life.  Now,  however,  the  whole  household  felt  the  change. 
The  riotous  laughter  of  the  kitchen  was  silenced,  the  loud 
speaking  hushed,  the  doors,  banged  by  the  wind  or  the  rude 
violence  of  careless  hands,  were  closed  noiselessly;  every- 
thing betokened  that  sorrow  was  there.  O'Donoghue  him- 
self paced  to  and  fro  in  the  chamber  of  the  old  tower,  now 
stopping  to    cast  a  glance   down   the   glen,   where   he   still 


76  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

hoped  to  see  Mark  approachiDg,  now  resuming  his  melan- 
choly walk  in  sadness  of  heart. 

In  the  darkened  sick  room,  and  by  the  bed,  sat  Sir 
Archibald,  concealed  by  the  curtain,  but  near  enough  to 
give  assistance  to  the  sick  boy  should  he  need  it.  He  sat 
buried  in  his  own  gloomy  thoughts,  rendered  gloomier  as 
he  listened  to  the  hurried  breathings  and  low  mutterings 
of  the  youth,  whose  fever  continued  to  increase  upon  him. 
The  old  ill-tempered  cook,  whose  tongue  was  the  terror 
of  the  region  she  dwelt  in,  sat  smoking  by  the  fire,  nor 
noticed  the  presence  of  the  aged  foxhound,  who  had  followed 
Kerry  into  the  kitchen,  and  now  lay  asleep  before  the  fire. 
Kerry  himself  ceased  to  hum  the  snatches  of  songs  and 
ballads  by  which  he  was  accustomed  to  beguile  the  weary 
day.  There  was  a  gloom  on  everything,  nor  was  the  aspect 
without  doors  more  cheering.  The  rain  beat  heavily  in 
drifts  against  the  windows ;  the  wind  shook  the  old  trees 
violently,  and  tossed  their  gnarled  limbs  in  wild  confusion, 
sighing  with  mournful  cadence  along  the  deep  glen,  or  pour- 
ing a  long  melancholy  note  through  the  narrow  corridors  of 
the  old  house.  The  sound  of  the  storm,  made  more  audible 
by  the  drear}^  silence,  seemed  to  weigh  down  every  heart. 
Even  the  bare-legged  little  gossoon,  Mickey,  who  had  come 
over  from  Father  Luke's  with  a  message,  sat  mute  and  sad, 
and  as  he  moved  his  naked  foot  among  the  white  turf  ashes, 
seemed  to  feel  the  mournful  depression  of  the  hour. 

"  'T  is  a  dreadful  day  of  rain,  glory  be  to  God  !  "  said 
Kerry,  as  he  drew  a  fragment  of  an  old  much-soiled  news- 
paper from  his  pocket,  and  took  his  seat  beside  the  blazing 
fire.  For  some  time  he  persevered  in  his  occupation  with- 
out interruption ;  but  Mrs.  Branaghan,  having  apparently 
exhausted  her  own  reflections,  now  turned  upon  him  to  sup- 
ply a  new  batch. 

"  What's  in  the  news,  Kerry  O'Leary?  I  think  ye  might 
as  well  read  it  out,  as  be  mumbling  it  to  yourself  there," 
said  she,  in  a  tone  seldom  disputed  in  the  realm  she  ruled. 

"  Musha,  then,"  said  Kerry,  scratching  his  head,  "the 
little  print  bates  me  entirely ;  the  letters  do  be  so  close,  they 
have  n't  room  to  stir  in,  and  my  eye  is  always  going  to  the 
line  above  and  the  line  below,  and  can't  keep  straight  in  the 


THE   HOUSE   OF  SICKNESS. 


77 


furrow  at  all.  Come  here,  Mickey,  alanah !  't  is  you  ought 
to  be  a  great  scholar,  living  in  the  house  with  his  reverence. 
They  tell  me,"  continued  he,  in  a  whisper  to  the  cook,  — 
"  they  tell  me,  he  can  sarve  mass  already." 

Mrs.  Branaghan  withdrew  her  dudeen  at  these  words,  and 
gazed  at  the  little  fellow  with  unmixed  astonishment,  who, 
in  obedience  to  the  summons,  took  his  place  beside  Kerry's 
chau-j  and  prepared  to  commence  his  task. 


"  Where  will  I  begin,  sir?  " 

"Begin  at  the  news,  av  coorse,"  said  Kerry,  somewhat 
puzzled  to  decide  what  kind  of  intelligence  he  most  desired. 
"  What's  this  here  with  a  large  P  in  the  first  of  it?  " 

"Prosperity  of  Ireland,  sir,"  said  the  child. 

"  Ay,  read  about  that,  Mickey,"  said  the  cook,  resuming 
her  pipe. 

With  a  sing-song  intonation,  which  neither  regarded 
paragraph  nor  period,  but  held  on  equably  throughout  the 
column,  the  little  fellow  began:  — 

"  The  prospect  of  an  abundant  harvest  is  now  very  gen- 
eral throughout  the  country ;   and  should  we  have  a  continu' 


78  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

ance  of  the  heavenly  weather  for  a  week  or  so  longer,  we 
hope  the  corn  will  all  be  saved." 

As  the  allusion  made  here  by  a  journalist  was  to  a  period 
of  several  years  previous,  the  listeners  might  be  excused 
for  not  feeling  a  perfect  concurrence  in  the  statement. 

"Heavenly  weather  indeed!"  grunted  out  the  cook,  as 
she  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  windows,  against  which 
the  plashing  rain  was  beating.     "Mike,  read  on." 

"Mr.  Foran  was  stopped  last  night  in  Baggot  Street, 
and  robbed  of  his  watch  and  clothes,  by  four  villains  who 
live  in  Stony  Batter ;  they  are  well  known,  and  are  advised 
to  take  care,  as  such  depredations  cannot  go  long  unpun- 
ished. —  The  two  villains  that  broke  into  the  house  of  the 
Archbishop  of  Dublin,  and  murdered  the  housemaid,  will 
be  turned  off  '  Lord  Temple's  trap'  on  Saturday  next ;  this 
will  be  a  lesson  to  the  people  about  the  Cross  Poddle,  that 
we  hope  may  serve  to  their  advantage. 

"  Sir  Miles  M'Shane  begs  to  inform  the  person  who  found 
his  shoe-buckle  after  the  last  levee,  that  he  will  receive  one- 
and-eightpence  reward  for  the  same,  by  bringing  it  to  No.  2, 
Ely  Place ;  or,  if  he  prefer  it,  Sir  Miles  will  toss  up  who 
keeps  the  pair.  They  are  only  paste,  and  not  diamond, 
though  mighty  well  imitated." 

"  Paste  !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Branaghan ;  "  the  lying  thieves  !  " 
her  notions  on  the  score  of  that  material  being  limited  to 
patties  and  pie-crusts. 

"  The  '  Bucks  '  are  imitating  the  ladies  in  all  the  arts  of 
beautifying  the  person.  Many  were  seen  painted  and 
patched  at  the  duchess's  last  ball.  We  hope  this  effemi- 
nacy may  not  spread  any  further.  —  It  is  Mr.  Rigby, 
and  not  Mr.  Harper,  is  to  have  the  silk  gown.  —  Sir  George 
Rose  is  to  get  the  red  ribbon  for  his  services  in  North 
America." 

"  A  silk  gown  and  a  red  ribbon !  "  cried  Mrs.  Branaghan. 
"Bad  luck  to  me,  but  they  might  be  ashamed  of  them- 
selves." 

"  Faix,  I  never  believed  what  Darby  Long  said  before," 
broke  in  Kerry.  "  He  tould  me  he  saw  the  Bishop  of  Cork 
in  a  black  silk  petticoat  like  a  famale.  Is  there  no  more 
murders,  Mickey?" 


THE   HOUSE   OF   SICKNESS.  79 

*'  I  don't  know,  sir,  barrin'  they  're  in  the  fashionable 
intelligence." 

"  Well,  read  on." 

"  Donald,  the  beast,  who  refused  to  leave  his  cell  in  Trim 
jail  at  the  last  assizes,  and  was  consequently  fired  at  by  a 
file  of  infantry,  had  his  leg  amputated  yesterday  by  Surgeon 
Huston  of  this  town,  and  is  doing  remarkably  well." 

"Where's  the  sporting  news?"  said  Kerry.  "Is  not 
this  it  here  ?  "  as  he  pointed  to  a  figure  of  a  horse  above  a 
column. 

"Mr.  Connolly's  horse  Gabriel  would  have  been  in  first, 
but  he  stopped  to  eat  Whaley,  the  jockey,  when  he  fell. 
The  race  is  to  be  run  again  on  Friday  next.  It  was  Mr. 
Daly,  and  not  Mr.  Crosbie,  horsewhipped  the  attorney  over 
the  course  last  Tuesday.  Mr.  Crosbie  spent  the  day  with 
the  Duke  of  Leinster,  and  is  very  angry  at  his  name  being 
mentioned  in  the  wrong,  particularly  as  he  is  bound  over 
to  keep  the  peace  towards  all  members  of  the  bar  for  three 
years. 

"  Captain  Heavyside  and  Mr.  Malone  exchanged  four 
shots  each  on  the  Bull  this  morning.  The  quarrel  was 
about  racing  and  politics,  and  miscellaneous  matters. 

"It  is  rumored  that  if  the  Chief  Justice  be  appointed 
from  England,  he  will  decline  giving  personal  satisfaction 
to  the  Master  of  the  Rolls ;  but  we  cannot  credit  the 
report. 

"  The  Carmelites  have  taken  Ranelagh  House  for  a 
nunnery." 

"  That's  the  only  bit  in  the  paper  I  'd  give  the  snuff  of 
my  pipe  for,"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan.  "Read  it  again, 
acushla."  — 

The  boy  re-read  the  passage.     ' 

"Well,  well,  I  wonder  if  Miss  Kate  will  ever  come  back 
again,"  said  she,  in  a  pause. 

"  To  be  sure  she  will,"  said  Kerry;  "  what  would  hinder 
her?  Hasn't  she  a  fine  fortune  out  of  the  property?  Ten 
thousand,  I  heerd  the  master  say." 

"  Ayeh !  sure  it's  all  gone  many  a  day  ago;  the  sorra 
taste  of  a  brass  farthen 's  left  for  her,  or  any  one  else. 
The  master  sould  every  stick  an'  stone  in  the  place,  barrin' 


80  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

the  house  that's  over  us,  and  sure  that's  all  as  one  as 
sould  too.  Ah,  then,  Miss  Kate  was  the  purty  child,  and 
had  the  coaxing  ways  with  her." 

"  'Tis  a  pity  to  make  her  a  nun,"  said  Kerry. 

"A  pity!  why  would  it  be  a  pity,  Kerry  O'Leary?" 
said  the  old  lady,  bristling  up  with  anger.  "Isn't  the 
nuns  happier,  and  dacenter,  and  higher  nor  other  women, 
with  rapscallions  for  husbands,  and  villains  of  all  kinds 
for  childer?  Is  it  the  likes  of  ye,  or  the  crayture  beside 
ye,  that  would  teach  a  colleen  the  way  to  heaven?  Musha, 
but  they  have  the  blessed  times  of  it  —  fastin'  and  prayin', 
and  doing  all  manner  of  penance,  and  talking  over  their 
sins  with  holy  men." 

"Whisht!  what's  that?  there's  the  bell  ringing  above 
stairs,"  said  Kerry,  suddenly  starting  up  and  listening. 
"Ay,  there  it  is  again;"  and,  so  saying,  he  yawned  and 
stretched  himself,  and  after  several  interjectional  grum- 
blings over  the  disturbance,  slowly  mounted  the  stau*s 
towards  the  parlor. 

'Are  ye  sleepin'  down  there,  ye  lazy  deevils?"  cried  Sir 
Archy,  from  the  landing  of  the  stairs.  "  Did  ye  no  hear 
the  bell?" 

"'Tis  now  I  heerd  it,"  said  Kerry,  composedly,  for  he 
never  vouchsafed  the  same  degree  of  deference  to  Sir  Archy 
he  yielded  to  the  rest  of  the  family. 

"  Go  see  if  there  be  any  lemons  in  the  house,  and  lose  no 
time  about  it." 

"  Faix,  I  needn't  go  far,  then,  to  find  out,"  whined 
Kerry ;  ' '  the  master  had  none  for  his  punch  these  two 
nights.  They  put  the  little  box  into  a  damp  corner,  and, 
sure  enough,  they  had  beards  on  them  like  Jews,  the  same 
lemons,  when  they  went  to  look  for  them." 

"  Go  down,  then,  to  the  woman  M'Kelly's,  in  the  glen, 
and  see  if  she  hae  na  some  there." 

"Oh,  murther!  murther !  "  muttered  Kerry  to  himself, 
as  the  whistling  storm  reminded  him  of  the  dreadful 
weather  without  doors.  "'Tis  no  use  in  going  without 
the  money,"  said  he,  slyly,  hoping  that  by  this  home- thrust 
he  might  escape  the  errand. 

"  Ye  maun  tell  her  to  put  it  in  the  account,  man." 


THE   HOUSE   OF  SICKNESS.  81 

"'Tis  in  bad  company  she'd  put  it,  then,"  muttered 
Kerry  below  his  breath;  then  added,  aloud,  "Sorrow  one 
she  'd  give,  if  I  had  n't  the  sixpence  in  my  hand.'* 

"  Canna  ye  say  it's  no  for  yoursel',  it's  for  the  house? 
She  wad  na  refuse  that." 

"  No  use  in  life,"  reiterated  he,  solemnly.  "  She  's  a  real 
naj'giir,  and  would  not  trust  Father  Luke  with  a  week's 
snuff,  and  he 's  dealt  there  for  sneeshin  these  thirty  years." 

"A  weel,  a  weel,"  said  M'Nab,  in  a  low,  harsh  voice; 
"  the  world 's  growing  waur  and  waur.  Ye  maun  e'en  gie 
her  a  shilling,  and  mind  ye  get  nae  bad  bawbees  in  change. 
She  suld  gie  ye  twelve  for  saxpence." 

Kerry  took  the  money  without  a  word  of  reply :  he  was 
foiled  in  the  plan  of  his  own  devising,  and,  with  many  a 
self -uttered  sarcasm  on  the  old  Scotchman,  he  descended 
the  stairs  once  more. 

"Is  Master  Herbert  worse?"  said  the  cook,  as  the  old 
huntsman  entered  the  kitchen. 

"  Begorra,  he  must  be  bad  entirely,  when  ould  Archy 
would  give  a  shilling  to  cure  him.  See  here,  he 's  sending 
me  for  lemons  down  to  Mary's." 

Kerry  rang  the  coin  upon  the  table,  as  if  to  test  its 
genuineness,  and  muttered  to  himself,  — 

"  'T  is  a  good  one,  —  devil  a  lie  in  it !  " 

"  There 's  the  bell  again  ;  musha,  how  he  rings  it !  " 

This  time  the  voice  of  Sir  Archy  was  heard  in  loud  tones 
summoning  Kerry  to  his  assistance,  for  Herbert  had  become 
suddenly  worse,  and  the  old  man  was  unable  to  prevent  him 
rising  from  his  bed  and  rushing  from  the  room. 

The  wild  and  excited  tones  of  the  youth  were  mixed  with 
the  deeper  utterings  of  the  old  man,  who  exerted  all  his 
efforts  to  calm  and  restrain  him  as  Kerry  reached  the  spot. 
By  his  aid  the  bo}^  was  conveyed  back  to  his  bed,  where, 
exhausted  by  his  own  struggles,  he  lay  without  speaking  or 
moving  for  some  hours. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  perceive,  however,  that  this  state 
boded  more  unfavorably  than  the  former  one.  The  violent 
parox^^sms  of  wild  insanity  betokened,  while  they  lasted,  a 
degree  of  vital  energy  and  force,  which  now  seemed  totally 
to  have  given  way  ;  and  although  Kerry  regarded  the  change 

VOL.   I.  —  6 


82  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

as  for  the  better,  the  more  practised  and  skilful  mind  of  Sir 
Archibald  drew  a  far  different  and  more  dispiriting  augury. 

Thus  passed  the  weary  hours,  and  at  last  the  long  day 
began  to  decline ;  but  still  no  sign  nor  sound  proclaimed  the 
doctor's  coming,  and  M'Nab's  anxiety  became  hourly  more 
intense. 

"If  he  come  na  soon,"  said  he,  after  a  long  and  dreary 
silence,  "  he  need  na  tak'  the  trouble  to  look  at  him." 

"'T is  what  I'm  thinking  too,"  said  Kerry,  with  a  sen- 
tentious gravity  almost  revoltmg.  "  When  the  fingers  does 
be  going  that  way,  it's  a  mighty  bad  sign.  If  I  seen  the 
hounds  working  with  their  toes,  I  never  knew  them 
recover." 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A    DOCTOR 'S    VISIT. 

The  night  was  far  advanced  as  the  doctor  arrived  at  the 
O'Donoghue's  house,  drenched  with  rain,  and  fatigued  by 
the  badness  of  the  roads,  where  his  gig  was  often  compelled 
to  proceed  for  above  a  mile  at  a  foot  pace.  Doctor  Roach 
was  not  in  the  most  bland  of  tempers  as  he  reached  his 
destination;  and,  of  a  verity,  his  was  a  nature  that  stood 
not  in  any  need  of  increased  acerbity.  The  doctor  was  a 
type  of  a  race  at  one  time  very  general ;  but  now,  it  is  hard 
to  say  wherefore,  nearly  extinct  in  Ireland.  But  so  it  is ; 
the  fruits  of  the  earth  change  not  in  course  of  years  more 
strikingly  than  the  fashions  of  men's  minds.  The  habits, 
popular  enough  in  one  generation,  survive  as  eccentricities 
in  another,  and  are  extinct  in  a  third. 

There  was  a  pretty  general  impression  in  the  world,  some 
sixty  or  seventy  years  back,  that  a  member  of  the  medical 
profession,  who  had  attained  to  any  height  in  his  art,  had  a 
perfect  right  to  dispense  with  all  the  amenities  and  courte- 
sies which  regulate  social  life  among  less  privileged  persons. 
The  concessions  now  only  yielded  to  a  cook  were  then  ex- 
tended to  a  physician ;  and  in  accordance  with  the  privilege 
b}^  which  he  administered  most  nauseous  doses  to  the  body, 
he  was  suffered  to  extend  his  dominion,  and  apply  scarcely 
more  palatable  remedies  to  the  minds  of  his  patients.  As 
if  the  ill-flavored  draughts  had  tinctured  the  spirit  that  con- 
ceived them,  the  tone  of  his  thoughts  usually  smacked  of 
bitters,  until  at  last  he  seemed  to  have  realized,  in  his  own 
person,  the  conflicting  agencies  of  the  pharmacopoeia,  and 
was  at  once  acrid,  and  pungent,  and  soporific  together. 

The  College  of  Physicians  could  never  have  reproached 
Doctor  Roach  with  conceding  a  single  iota  of  their  privi- 


84  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

leges.  Never  was  there  one  who  more  stoutly  maintained, 
in  his  whole  practice  through  life,  the  blessed  immunity  of 
"the  Doctor."  The  magic  word  "Recipe,"  which  headed 
his  prescriptions,  suggested  a  tone  of  command  to  all  he 
said,  and  both  his  drugs  and  dicta  were  swallowed  without 
remonstrance. 

It  may  not  be  a  flattering  confession  for  humanity,  but 
it  is  assuredly  a  true  one,  that  the  exercise  of  power,  no 
matter  how  humble  its  sphere,  or  how  limited  its  range, 
will  eventually  generate  a  tyrannical  habit  in  him  who 
wields  it.  Doctor  Roach  was  certainly  not  the  exception 
to  this  rule.  The  Czar  himself  was  not  more  autocrat  in 
the  steppes  of  Russia,  than  was  he  in  any  house  where 
sickness  had  found  entrance.  From  that  hour  he  planted 
his  throne  there.  All  the  caprices  of  age,  all  the  follies  of 
childhood,  the  accustomed  freedoms  of  home,  the  indul- 
gences which  grow  up  by  habit  in  a  household,  had  to  give 
way  before  a  monarch  more  potent  than  all,  —  "the  Doctor." 
Men  bore  the  infliction  with  the  same  patient  endurance 
they  summoned  to  sustain  the  malady.  They  felt  it  to  be 
grievous  and  miserable,  but  they  looked  forward  to  a 
period  of  relief,  and  panted  for  the  arrival  of  the  hour 
when  the  disease  and  the  doctor  would  take  their  departure 
together. 

If  the  delight  they  experienced  at  such  a  consummation 
was  extreme,  so  to  the  physician  it  savored  of  ingratitude. 
"I  saved  his  life  yesterday,"  saith  he,  "and  see  how  happy 
he  is  to  dismiss  me  to-da3\"  But  who  is  ever  grateful  for 
the  pangs  of  a  toothache?  Or  what  heart  can  find  pleasure 
in  the  memory  of  sententiousness,  senna,  and  low  diet? 

Never  were  the  blessings  of  restored  health  felt  with  a 
more  suitable  thankfulness  than  by  Doctor  Roach's  patients. 
To  be  free  once  more  from  his  creaking  shoes,  his  little 
low  dry  cough,  his  harsh  accents,  his  harsher  words,  his 
contradictions,  his  sneers,  and  his  selfishness,  shed  a  halo 
around  recovery  which  the  friends  of  the  patient  could  not 
properly  appreciate. 

Such  was  the  individual  whose  rumbling  and  rattling 
vehicle  now  entered  the  court-j^ard  of  Carrig-na-curra, 
escorted    by  poor   Terry,    who    had   accompanied   him  the 


A  DOCTOR'S  VISIT.  85 

entire  way  on  foot.  The  distance  he  had  come,  his  more 
than  doubts  about  the  fee,  the  severity  of  the  storm,  were 
not  the  accessories  likely  to  amend  the  infirmities  of  his 
temper;  while  a  still  greater  source  of  irritation  than  all 
existed  in  the  mutual  feeling  of  dislike  between  him  and 
Sir  Archibald  M'Nab.  An  occasional  meeting  at  a  little 
boarding-house  in  Killarney,  which  Sir  Archy  was  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  each  summer  for  a  few  days,  —  the  only 
recreation  he  permitted  himself,  —  had  cultivated  this  senti- 
ment to  such  a  pitch,  that  they  never  met  without  disagree- 
ment, or  parted  without  an  actual  quarrel.  The  doctor  was 
a  democrat,  and  a  Romanist  of  the  first  water.  Sir  Archy 
was  a  member  of  the  Scottish  Episcopal  Church;  and, 
whatever  might  have  been  his  early  leanings  in  politics, 
and  in  whatever  companionship  his  active  years  were 
passed,  experience  had  taught  him  the  fallacy  of  many 
opinions,  which  owe  any  appearance  of  truth  or  stability 
they  possess  to  the  fact  that  they  have  never  advanced 
beyond  the  stage  of  speculative  notions  into  the  realms  of 
actual  and  practical  existence.  But,  above  all,  the  prudent 
Scotchman  dreaded  the  prevalence  of  these  doctrines  among 
young  and  unsettled  minds,  ever  ready  to  prefer  the  short 
and  hazardous  career  of  fortune  to  the  slow  and  patient 
drudgery  of  daily  industry. 

If  the  doctor  anticipated  but  little  enjoyment  in  the 
society  of  Sir  Archy,  neither  did  the  latter  hope  for  any 
pleasure  to  himself  from  Roach's  company.  However,  as 
the  case  of  poor  Herbert  became  each  hour  more  threaten- 
ing, the  old  man  resolved  to  bury  in  oblivion  every  topic  of 
mutual  disagreement,  and,  so  long  as  the  doctor  remained 
in  the  house,  to  make  every  possible  or  impossible  conces- 
sion to  conciliate  the  good-will  of  one  on  whose  services  so 
much  depended. 

*'Do  ye  hear?  "  cried  Roach,  in  a  harsh  voice,  to  Kerry, 
who  was  summoned  from  the  kitchen  fire  to  take  charge  of 
his  horse;  "let  the  pony  have  a  mash  of  bran, — a  hot 
mash, —and  don't  leave  him  till  he's  dry." 

"Never  fear,  sir,"  replied  Kerry,  as  he  led  the  jaded  and 
wayworn  beast  into  the  stable,  "I  '11  take  care  of  him  as  if 
he  was  a  racer;  "  and  then,  as  Roach  disappeared,  added, 


86  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"I  'd  like  to  see  myself  strapping  the  likes  of  him,  — an 
ould  mountaineer.  A  mash  of  bran,  indeed!  Cock  him 
up  with  bran!  Begorra,  'tis  thistles  and  docks  he  's  most 
used  to;"  and,  with  this  sage  reflection  on  the  beast's 
habits,  he  locked  the  stable  door,  and  resumed  his  former 
place  beside  the  blazing  turf  fire. 

O'Donoghue's  reception  of  the  doctor  was  most  cordial. 
He  was  glad  to  see  him  on  several  accounts.  He  was  glad 
to  see  any  one  who  could  tell  him  what  was  doing  in  the 
world,  from  which  all  his  intercourse  was  cut  off;  he  was 
glad,  because  the  supper  was  waiting  an  hour  and  a  half 
beyond  its  usual  time,  and  he  was  getting  uncommonly 
hungry;  and,  lastly,  he  really  felt  anxious  about  Herbert, 
whenever  by  any  chance  his  thoughts  took  that  direction. 

"How  are  you.  Roach?"  cried  he,  advancing  to  meet 
him  with  an  extended  hand.  "This  is  a  kind  thing  of 
you;  you've  had  a  dreadful  day,  1  fear." 

"  D — n  me,  if  I  ever  saw  it  otherwise  in  this  confounded 
glen.     I  never  set  foot  in  it  that  I  was  n't  wet  through." 

"We  have  our  share  of  rain,  indeed,"  replied  the  other, 
with  a  good-humored  laugh;  "but  if  we  have  storm,  we 
have  shelter." 

Intentionally  misunderstanding  the  allusion,  and  apply- 
ing to  the  ruined  mansion  the  praise  bestowed  on  the  bold 
mountains,  the  doctor  threw  a  despairing  look  around  the 
room,  and  repeated  the  word  "shelter"  in  a  voice  far  from 
complimentary. 

The  O'Donoghue's  blood  was  up  in  a  moment.  His 
brow  contracted  and  his  cheek  flushed,  as,  in  a  low  and 
deep  tone,  he  said,  — 

"  It  is  a  crazy  old  concern.  You  are  right  enough,  — 
neither  the  walls  nor  the  company  within  them  are  like  what 
they  once  were." 

The  look  with  which  these  words  were  given  recalled  the 
doctor  to  a  sense  of  his  own  impertinence;  for,  like  certain 
tethered  animals,  who  never  become  conscious  of  restraint 
till  the  check  of  the  rope  lays  them  on  their  back,  nothing 
short  of  such  a  home-blow  could  have  staggered  his  self- 
conceit. 

"Ay,    ay,"   muttered  he,  with   a   cackling   apology  for  a 


A  DOCTOR'S  VISIT.  87 

laugh,  "time  is  telling  on  us  all.  But  I'm  keeping  the 
supper  waiting." 

The  duties  of  hospitality  were  always  enough  to  make 
O'Donoghue  forget  any  momentary  chagrin,  and  he  seated 
himself  at  the  table  w^ith  all  his  wonted  good  humor  and 
affability. 

As  the  meal  proceeded,  the  doctor  inquired  about  the 
sick  boy,  and  the  circumstances  attending  his  illness;  the 
interest  he  bestowed  on  the  narrative  mainly  depending  on 
the  mention  of  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers's  name,  whose  pres- 
ence in  the  country  he  was  not  aware  of  before,  and  from 
whose  residence  he  began  already  to  speculate  on  many 
benefits  to  himself. 

"They  told  me,"  continued  O'Donoghue,  "that  the  lad 
behaved  admirably.  In  fact,  if  the  old  weir-rapid  be  any- 
thing like  what  I  remember  it,  the  danger  was  no  common 
one.  There  used  to  be  a  current  there  strong  enough  to 
carry  away  a  dozen  horsemen." 

"And  how  is  the  young  lady?  Is  she  nothing  the  worse 
from  the  cold,  and  the  drenching,  and  the  shock  of  the 
accident?  " 

"Faith,  I  must  confess  it,  I  have  not  had  the  grace  to 
ask  after  her.  Living  as  I  have  been  for  some  years  back 
has  left  me  sadly  in  arrear  with  every  demand  of  the  world. 
Sir  Marmaduke  was  polite  enough  to  say  he'd  call  on  me; 
but  there  is  a  still  greater  favor  he  could  bestow,  which  is, 
to  leave  me  alone." 

"There  was  a  lawsuit,  or  dispute  of  some  kind  or  other 
between  you,  was  there  not?" 

"There  is  something  of  the  kind,"  said  O'Donoghue, 
with  an  air  of  annoyance  at  the  question;  "but  these  are 
matters  gentlemen  leave  to  their  lawyers,  and  seek  not  to 
mix  themselves  up  with." 

"The  strong  purse  is  the  sinew  of  war,"  muttered  the 
inexorable  doctor;  "and  they  tell  me  he  is  one  of  the 
wealthiest  men  in  England." 

"He  may  be,  for  aught  I  know  or  care." 

"Well,  well,"  resumed  the  other,  after  a  long  deliberative 
pause,  "there  *s  no  knowing  how  this  adventure  may  turn 
out.  If  your  son  saved  the  girl's  life,  I  scarcely  think  he 
could  press  you  so  hard  about  — " 


88  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

*'Take  care,  sir,"  broke  in  O'Donoghue,  and  with  the 
words  he  seized  the  doctor's  wrist  in  his  strong  grasp,  — 
"  take  care  how  you  venture  to  speak  of  affairs  which  nowise 
concern  you;"  then,  seeing  the  terrified  look  his  speech 
called  up,  he  added,  "  I  have  been  very  irritable  latterly, 
and  never  desire  to  talk  on  these  subjects;  so,  if  you 
please,  we'll  change  the  topic." 

The  door  was  cautiously  opened  at  this  moment,  and 
Kerry  presented  himself,  with  a  request  from  Sir  Archibald, 
that,  as  soon  as  Doctor  Roach  found  it  convenient,  he  would 
be  glad  to  see  him  in  the  sick  room. 

"I  am  ready  now,"  said  the  doctor,  rising  from  his  chair, 
and  not  by  any  means  sorry  at  the  opportunity  of  escaping 
a  tete-a-tete  he  had  contrived  to  render  so  unpalatable  to 
both  parties.  As  he  mounted  the  stairs,  he  continued  in 
broken  phrases  to  inveigh  against  the  house  and  the  host  in 
a  half  soliloquy:  "A  tumble-down  old  barrack  it  is  —  not 
fifty  shillings  worth  of  furniture  under  the  roof  —  the  ducks 
were  as  tough  as  soaked  parchment;  and  where  's  the  fee  to 
come  from?  I  wish  I  knew  that;  unless  I  take  one  of  these 
old  devils  instead  of  it;  "  and  he  touched  the  frame  of  a 
large,  damp,  discolored  portrait  of  some  long-buried  ances- 
tor, several  of  which  figured  on  the  walls  of  the  staircase. 

"The  boy  is  worse,  — far  worse,"  whispered  a  low  but 
distinct  voice  beside  him.  "His  head  is  now  all  astray; 
he  knows  no  one." 

Doctor  Roach  seemed  vexed  at  the  ceremony  of  saluta- 
tion being  forgotten  in  Sir  Archibald's  eagerness  about  the 
youth,   and  dryly  answered,  — 

"I  have  the  honor  to  see  you  well,  sir,  I  hope." 

"There  is  one  here  very  far  from  well,"  resumed  Sir 
Archy,  neither  caring  for  nor  considering  the  speech.  "We 
have  lost  too  much  time  already ;  I  trust  you  may  na  be  too 
late  now." 

The  doctor  made  no  reply,  but  rudely  taking  the  candle 
from  his  hand,  walked  towards  the  bed. 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  he,  as  he  beheld  the  lustrous  eyes 
and  wide-spread  pupils,  the  rose-red  cheek,  and  dry, 
cracked  lips  of  the  youth,   "he  has   it  sure  enough." 

•'Has  what?  what  is  it?" 

"The  fever,  — brain  fever,  and  the  worst  kind  of  it,  too." 


A  DOCTOR'S   VISIT.  89 

"And  there  is  danger,  then?  "  whispered  M'Nab. 

"Danger,  indeed!  I  wonder  how  many  come  through  it. 
Pshaw!  there  's  no  use  trying  to  count  his  pulse;  "  and  he 
threw  the  hand  rudely  back  upon  the  bed.  "That 's  going 
as  fast  as  ever  his  father  went  with  the  property."  A 
harsh,  low,  cackling  laugh  followed  this  brutal  speech, 
which  demanded  all  Sir  Archy's  predetermined  endurance 
to  suffer  unchecked. 

"Do  you  know  me?  "  said  the  doctor,  in  the  loud  voice 
used  to  awaken  the  dormant  faculty  of  hearing,  — "do  you 
know  me?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  staring  steadfastly  at  him. 

"Well,  who  am  I,  then?     Am  I  your  father?  " 

A  vacant  gaze  was  all  the  answer. 

"Tell  me,  am  I  your  father?  " 

No  reply  followed. 

"Am  I  your  uncle,  then?"  said  the  doctor,  still  louder. 

The  word  "uncle"  seemed  to  strike  upon  some  new  chord 
of  his  awakened  sense.  A  faint  smile  played  upon  his 
parched  lips,  and  his  eyes  wandered  from  the  speaker,  as  if 
in  search  of  some  object,  till  they  fell  upon  Sir  Archy,  as 
he  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed ;  when  suddenly  his  whole 
countenance  was  lighted  up,  and  he  repeated  the  word 
"uncle"  to  himself  in  a  voice  indescribably  sweet  and 
touching. 

"He  has  na  forgotten  me,"  murmured  M'Nab,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  emotion.     "My  aiu  dear  boy,  he  knows  me  yet." 

"You  agitate  him  too  much,"  said  Roach,  whose  nature 
had  little  sympathy  with  the  feelings  of  either.  "  You  must 
leave  me  alone  here  to  examine  him  myself." 

M'Nab  said  not  a  word,  but,  with  noiseless  step,  stole 
from  the  room.  The  doctor  looked  after  him  as  he  went, 
and  then  followed  to  see  that  the  door  was  closed  behind. 
This  done,  he  beckoned  to  Kerry,  who  still  remained,  to 
approach,  and  deliberately  seated  himself  in  a  chair  near 
the  window. 

"Tell  me,  my  good  fellow,"  said  he,  affecting  an  air  of 
confidence  as  he  spoke,  "ain't  they  all  broke  here?  Isn't 
the  whole  thing  smashed?  " 

"Broke  —  smashed!"  repeated  Kerry,  as  he  held  up  both 


90  THE    O'DONOGHUE. 

hands  in  feigned  astonishment.  '"Tis  a  droll  smash; 
begorra,  I  never  see  money  as  plenty  this  many  a  year. 
Sure  av  there  was  n't  lashings  of  it,  would  he  be  looking 
out  for  carriage-horses,  and  buying  hunters,  not  to  say  put- 
ting the  kennel  in  order?" 

"Is  it  truth  you  are  telling?"  said  Roach,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"True  as  my  name  is  Kerry  O'Leary.  ATe  offered  Lauty 
Lawler  a  hundred  and  twenty  guineas  on  Friday  last  for  a 
match  wheeler,  and  we're  not  off  of  him  yet;  he's  a  big 
brown  horse,  with  a  star  on  his  face;  and  the  cob  for  the 
master  cost  forty  pounds.  He  '11  be  here  to-morrow  or  next 
day;  sure  ye '11  see  him  yourself." 

"The  place  is  falling  to  ruin;  the  roof  will  never  last  the 
winter,"  broke  in  the  doctor. 

"Well,  and  whose  fault  is  it  but  that  spalpeen  Murphy's, 
that  won't  set  the  men  to  work  till  he  gets  oak  timber  from 
the  Black  Say?  'T  is  the  finest  wood  in  the  world,  they  tell 
me,  and  lasts  for  ever  and  ever." 

*'But  don't  they  owe  money  everywhere  in  the  country? 
There  is  n't  a  little  shop  in  Killarney  without  an  account 
of  theirs  in  it." 

"Of  course  they  do;  and  the  same  in  Cork,  —  ay,  and  in 
Tralee,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Would  you  have  them  not 
give  encouragement  to  more  places  nor  one?  There  's  not 
one  of  those  crayturs  would  send  in  their  bill  —  no,  though 
we  do  be  asking  for  it  week  after  week.  They  're  afraid  of 
losing  the  custom.  And  I  '11  engage,  now,  they  do  be  tell- 
ing you  they  can't  get  their  money  by  hook  or  by  crook; 
that's  it,  —  I  knew  it  well." 

The  doctor  meditated  long  on  these  strange  revelations, 
so  very  opposite  to  all  he  had  heard  of  the  circumstances  of 
the  O'Donoghues;  and  while  his  own  convictions  were 
strongly  against  Kerry's  narrative,  that  worthy  man's  look 
of  simplicity  and  earnest  truth  puzzled  him  considerably, 
and  made  him  hesitate  which  side  to  credit. 

After  a  long  pause,  from  which  the  incoherent  ravings 
of  the  sick  boy  aroused  him,  he  looked  up  at  Kerry,  and 
then,  with  a  motion  of  his  thumb  towards  the  bed,  he 
muttered,  — 


A  DOCTOR'S  VISIT.  91 

"He  's  going  fast." 

"Going  fast!  "  echoed  Kerry,  in  a  voice  very  different 
from  his  former  accent.  "Oh,  wirra!  there's  nothing  so 
bad  as  death!  Distress  and  poverty  is  hard  enough,  but 
that 's  the  raal  misfortune." 

A  dry,  sarcastic  grin  from  the  doctor  seemed  to  say  that 
poor  Kerry's  secret  was  discovered.  The  allusion  to  want 
of  means  came  too  naturally  not  to  be  suggested  by  present 
circumstances,  and  the  readiness  of  Doctor  Roach's  appre- 
hension clinched  the  discovery  at  once. 

''We'll  go  down,  now,"  said  the  doctor;  "I  believe  I 
know  the  whole  state  of  the  case."  And,  with  these  words 
of  ambiguous  meaning,  he  returned  to  the  drawing-room. 


CHAPTER   X. 

AN    EVENING    AT    "mARY  "    m'kELLt'S. 

If  sorrow  had  thrown  its  sombre  shadow  over  the  once 
proud  house  of  the  O'Donoghue,  within  whose  walls  now 
noiseless  footsteps  stole  along,  and  whispered  words  were 
spoken,  a  very  different  scene  presented  itself  at  the  small 
hostel  of  Mary  M' Kelly.  There,  before  the  ample  fireplace, 
a  quarter  of  a  sheep  was  roasting,  while  various  utensils  of 
cookery,  disposed  upon  and  around  the  fire,  diffused  a 
savory  odor  through  the  apartment.  A  table,  covered  with 
a  snow-white  napkin,  and  containing  covers  for  a  party  of 
six,  occupied  the  middle  of  the  room;  cups  and  drinking- 
vessels  of  richly  chased  silver,  silver  forks  and  spoons  of 
handsome  pattern,  were  there  also,  —  strange  and  singular 
spectacle  beneath  the  humble  thatch  of  a  wayside  cabin. 
Mary  herself  displayed  in  her  toilet  a  more  than  usual  care 
and  attention,  and  wore,  in  her  becoming  cap,  with  a  deep 
lace  border,  a  bouquet  of  tricolored  ribbons,  coquettishly 
knotted,  and  with  the  ends  falling  loosely  on  her  neck. 
While  she  busied  herself  in  the  preparation  for  the  table, 
she  maintained  from  time  to  time  a  running  conversation 
with  a  person  who  sat  smoking  in  the  chimney  corner. 
Although  screened  from  the  glare  of  the  fire,  the  light  which 
was  diffused  around  showed  enough  of  the  dress  and  style 
of  the  wearer  to  recognize  him  at  once  for  Lanty  Lawler, 
the  horse-dealer.  His  attitude,  as  he  lolled  back  on  one 
chair,  and  supported  his  legs  on  another,  bespoke  the  per- 
fection of  ease,  while  in  the  jaunty  manner  he  held  the 
long  pipe-stick  between  his  fingers  could  be  seen  the  affec- 
tation of  one  who  wished  to  be  thought  at  home,  as  well  as 
to  feel  so. 


AN  EVENING  AT   "MARY"   M'KELLY'S.  93 

"What  hour  did  they  mention,  Mary?"  said  he,  after  a 
pause  of  some  minutes,  during  which  he  puffed  his  pipe 
assiduously. 

"  The  gossoon  that  came  from  Beerhaven  said  it  would  be 
nine  o'clock,  at  any  rate;  but  sure  it 's  nigher  to  ten  now. 
They  were  to  come  up  on  the  flood  tide.  Whisht!  what 
was  that?     Was  n't  that  like  the  noise  of  wheels?  " 

"No;  that's  the  wind,  and  a  severe  night  it  is,  too. 
I  'm  thinking,  Mary,  the  storm  may  keep  them  back." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it;  there  's  a  creek  down  there,  they  tell 
me,  safer  nor  e'er  a  harbor  in  Ireland.  And  you  'd  never 
see  a  bit  of  a  vessel  till  you  were  straight  over  her;  and 
sure  it 's  little  they  mind  weather.  That  Captain  Jack,  as 
they  call  him,  says  there  's  no  time  for  business  like  a  gale 
of  wind.  The  last  night  they  were  here  there  were  two 
wrecks  in  the  bay." 

'•I  mind  it  well,  Mary.  Faix,  I  never  felt  a  toast  so 
hard  to  drink  as  the  one  they  gave  after  supper." 

"Don't  be  talking  about  it,"  said  Mary,  crossing  herself 
devoutly;  "they  said  it  out  of  devilment,  sorra  more." 

"Well,  maybe  so,"  muttered  he,  sententiously.  "They  're 
wild  chaps,  any  way,  and  they  've  a  wild  life  of  it." 

"Troth,  if  I  was  a  man,  't  is  a  life  I  'd  like  well,"  said 
Mary,  with  a  look  of  resolute  determination  well  becoming 
the  speech.  "Them  's  the  fine  times  they  have,  going  round 
the  world  for  sport,  and  nothing  to  care  for;  as  much  goold 
as  they'd  ask,  fine  clothes,  the  best  of  eating  and  drinking; 
sure  there  's  not  one  of  them  would  drink  out  of  less  than 
silver.'* 

"Faix,  they  may  have  iron  round  their  ankles  for  it, 
after  all,  Mary." 

"Sorra  bit  of  it;  the  jail  isn't  built  yet  that  would  howld 
them.  What's  that  noise,  now?  That's  them.  Oh,  no; 
it 's  the  water  running  down  the  mountain." 

"Well,  I  wish  they  'd  come,  any  way,"  said  Lanty,  "for  I 
must  be  off  early  to-morrow;  I  've  an  order  from  the  ould 
banker  here  above  for  six  beasts,  and  I  'd  like  to  get  a  few 
hours'  sleep  before  morning." 

'"T  is  making  a  nice  penny  you  are  there,  Lanty,"  said 
Mary,  with  a  quizzical  look  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 


94  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"A  good  stroke  of  business,  sure  enough,  Mary,"  replied 
he,  laughingly.  "What  d'  ye  think  I  did  with  him  yester- 
day morning?  I  heerd  here,  ye  know,  what  happened  to 
the  gray  mare  I  bought  from  Mark  O'Donoghue,  — that  she 
was  carried  over  the  weir-gash  and  drowned.  What  does  I 
do,  but  goes  up  to  the  Lodge  and  asks  for  Sir  Marmaduke; 
and,  says  I,  'I  'm  come,  sir,  to  offer  a  hundred  and  fifty 
for  the  little  mare  I  sould  you  the  other  day  for  a  hundred ; 
't  is  only  now  I  found  out  her  real  value,  and  I  can  get 
two  hundred  for  her  in  Cork  the  day  I  bring  her  up ;  and 
sure  your  honor  would  n't  prevent  a  poor  man  making  a 
trifle  in  the  way  of  his  trade.'  'You  're  an  honest  fellow, 
Lanty,'  says  he,  —  devil  a  lie  in  it,  Mary,  don't  be  laugh- 
ing, —  'you  're  an  honest  fellow;  and  although  I  cannot  let 
you  have  your  mare  back  again,  for  she  was  killed  last 
night,  you  shall  have  your  own  price  for  the  four  carriage- 
horses  and  the  two  roadsters  I  ordered.'  With  that  I  began 
blubbering  about  the  mare,  and  swore  I  was  as  fond  of  her 
as  if  she  was  my  sister.  I  wish  you  had  seen  his  daughter 
then;  upon  my  conscience,  it  was  as  good  as  a  play. 
'They  have  so  much  feel  in','  says  she  to  her  father.  'For 
fun,'  says  I  to  myself.  O  murther,  murther,  Mary,  and 
them's  the  people  that  rules  us!" 

"Omadhauns  they  are,  the  devil  a  more!"  interposed 
Mary,  whose  hearty  contempt  for  the  Saxon  originated  in 
the  facility  by  which  he  could  be  imposed  upon. 

"  That 's  what  I  'm  always  saying,"  said  Lanty.  "I  'd 
rather  have  the  chaytin'  than  the  baytin'  of  John  Bull,  any 
day!  You  '11  humbug  him  out  of  his  shirt,  and,  faix,  it 's 
the  easiest  way  to  get  it,  after  all." 

"  It 's  a  mane  way,  Lanty,"  interposed  Mary,  with  a  look 
of  pride,  —  "it 's  a  dirty,  mane  way,  and  does  n't  become 
an  Irishman." 

"Wait  till  the  time  comes,  Mary  M' Kelly,"  said  Lanty, 
half  angrily,  "and  maybe  I  'd  be  as  ready  as  another." 

"I  wish  it  was  come,"  said  Mary,  sighing;  "I  wish  to 
the  Virgin  it  was;  I'm  tired  heerin'  of  the  preparations. 
Sorra  one  of  me  knows  what  more  they  want,  if  the  stout 
heart  was  there.  There  's  eight  barrels  of  gunpowder  in 
that  rock  there,"  said  she,  in  a  low  whisper,   "behind  your 


AN   EVENING   AT   "MARY"  M'KELLY'S.  95 

back;  you  needn't  stir,  Lanty.  Begorra,  if  a  spark  was 
in  it,  'twould  blow  you  and  me,  and  the  house  that 's  over 
us,   as  high  as  Hungry  mountain." 

'"The  angels  be  near  us!  "  said  Lanty,  making  the  sign 
of  the  cross. 

'"Ay,"  resumed  Mary,  "and  muskets  for  a  thousand  min, 
and  pikes  for  two  more.  There 's  saddles  and  bridles, 
eighteen  hogsheads  full." 

"  True  enough,"  chimed  in  Lanty;  "and  I  have  an  order 
for  five  hundred  cavalry  horses,  —  the  money  to  be  paid  out 
of  the  Bank  of  France.  Musha,  I  wish  it  was  some  place 
nearer  home." 

"Is  it  doubting  them  ye  are,  Lanty  Lawler?" 

"No,  not  a  bit;  but  it's  always  time  enough  to  get  the 
beasts  when  we  see  the  riders.  I  could  mount  two  thou- 
sand men  in  a  fortnight,  any  day,  if  there  was  money  to 
the  fore;  ay,  and  mount  them  well,  too;  not  the  kind  of 
devils  I  give  the  government,  that  won't  stand  three  days 
of  hard  work.  Musha,  Mary,  but  it's  getting  very  late; 
that  mutton  will  be  as  dry  as  a  stick." 

"The  French  likes  it  best  that  way,"  said  Mary,  with  a 
droll  glance,  as  though  to  intimate  she  guessed  the  speaker's 
object.  "Take  a  look  down  the  road,  Lanty,  and  try  if 
you  can  hear  any  one  coming." 

Lanty  arose  from  his  comfortable  corner  with  evident 
reluctance,  and  laid  down  his  pipe  with  a  half  sigh,  as  he 
moved  slowly  towards  the  door  of  the  cabin,  which  having 
unbarred,   he  issued  forth  into  the  darkness. 

"It's  likely  I'd  hear  anything  such  a  night  as  this," 
grumbled  he  to  himself,  "with  the  trees  snapping  across, 
and  the  rocks  tumbling  down!     It's  a  great  storm  entirely." 

"Is  there  any  sign  of  them,  Lanty?  "  cried  Mary,  as  she 
held  the  door  ajar,  and  peeped  out  into  the  gloomy  night. 

"I  could  n't  see  my  hand  fornint  me." 

"Do  you  hear  nothing?  " 

"Faix,  I  hear  enough  over  my  head;  that  was  thunder! 
Is  there  any  fear  of  it  getting  at  the  powder,  Mary?  " 

"Divil  a  fear;  don't  be  unasy  about  that,"  said  the  stout- 
hearted Mary.     "  Can  you  see  nothing  at  all  ?  " 

"  Sorra  a  thing,   barrin'  the  lights  up  at  Carriguacurra : 


96  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

they  're  moving  about  there,  at  a  wonderful  rate.     What 's 
O'Donoghue  doing  at  all?" 

'"T  is  the  young  boy,  Herbert,  is  sick,"  said  Mary,  as 
she  opened  the  door  to  admit  Lanty  once  more.  "The 
poor  child  is  in  a  fever.  Kerry  O'Leary  was  down  here  this 
evening  for  lemons  for  a  drink  for  him.  Poor  Kerry!  he 
was  telling  me,  himself  has  a  sore  time  of  it  with  that  ould 
Scotchman  that 's  up  there;  nothing  ever  was  like  him  for 
scoulding,  and  barging,  and  abusing;  and  O'Donoghue 
now  minds  nothing  inside  or  out,  but  sits  all  day  long  in 
the  big  chair,  just  as  if  he  was  asleep.  Maybe  he  does  • 
take  a  nap  sometimes,  for  he  talks  of  bailiffs,  and  writs, 
and  all  them  things.  Poor  ould  man!  it 's  a  bad  end  when 
the  law  comes  with  the  gray  hairs!" 

"  They  've  a  big  score  with  yourself,  I  '11  be  bound,"  said 
Lanty,    inquiringly. 

"  Troth,  I  'd  like  to  see  myself  charge  them  with  any- 
thing," said  she,  indignantly.  "It's  to  them  and  theirs  I 
owe  the  roof  that 's  over  me,  and  my  father,  and  my  father's 
father  before  me  owes  it.  Musha,  it  would  become  me  to 
take  their  money,  for  a  trifle  of  wine  and  spirits,  and  tay 
and  tobacco,  as  if  I  was  n't  proud  to  see  them  send  down 
here,  — the  raal  ould  stock  that 's  in  it!  Lanty,  it  must  be 
very  late  by  this.  I  'm  afeard  something  's  wrong  up  in 
the  bay." 

'"Tis  that  same  I  was  thinking  myself,"  said  Lanty, 
with  a  sly  look  towards  the  roasted  joint,  whose  savory 
odor  was  becoming  a  temptation  overmuch  for  resistance. 

"You  've  a  smart  baste  in  the  stable,"  said  Mary.  "He 
has  eaten  his  corn  by  this  time,  and  must  be  fresh  enough ; 
just  put  the  saddle  on  him,  Lanty  dear,  and  ride  down  the 
road  a  mile  or  two,  — do,  and  good  luck  attend  you." 

There  never  was  a  proposition  less  acceptable  to  the 
individual  to  whom  it  was  made;  to  leave  a  warm  fireside 
was  bad  enough,  but  to  issue  forth  on  a  night  it  would  have 
been  inhumanity  to  expose  a  dog  to,  was  far  too  much  for 
his  compliance;  yet  Lanty  did  not  actually  refuse;  no,  he 
had  his  own  good  reasons  for  keeping  fair  with  Mary 
M'Kelly.  So  he  commenced  a  system  of  diplomatic  delay 
and  discussion,  by  which  time  at  least  might  be  gained,  in 


AN   EVENING   AT   "MARY"   M'KELLY'S.  97 

-which  it  was  possible  the  long-expected  guests  would  arrive, 
or  the  project  fall  to  the  ground  on  its  own  merits. 

''Which  way  will  they  come,  Mary?"  said  he,  rising 
from  his  seat. 

■'  Up  the  glen,  to  be  sure,  —  what  other  way  could  they, 
from  the  bay?  You  '11  hear  them  plain  enough,  for  they 
shout  and  sing  every  step  of  the  road,  as  if  it  was  their 
own;  wild  devils  they  are." 

"Sing  is  it?     Musha,  now,  do  they  sing?  " 

''Ay,  faix,  the  drollest  songs  ever  ye  heerd;  French  and 
Roosian  songs,  —  sorra  the  likes  of  them  going  at  all." 

"Light  hearts  they  have  of  their  own." 

"You  may  say  that,  Lanty  Lawler;  fair  weather  or  foul, 
them  's  the  boys  never  change.  But  come  now,  be  alive, 
and  get  out  the  baste." 

"I  'm  going,  I  'm  going;  it 's  myself  would  like  to  hear 
them  sing  a  Roosian  song.  Whisht!  what 's  that?  did  ye 
hear  a  shout  there  ?  " 

"Here  they  are;  that's  them,"  said  Mary,  springing 
towards  the  door  and  withdrawing  the  bolt,  while  a  smart 
knock  was  heard,  and  the  same  instant  a  voice  called  out, — 

"Holloa!   house  ahoy!  " 

The  door  at  the  moment  flew  open,  and  a  short,  thick- 
set looking  man,  in  a  large  boat  cloak,  entered,  followed  by 
a  taller  figure,  equally  muffled.  The  former,  dropping  his 
heavy  envelope,  and  throwing  off  an  oilskin  cap  from  his 
head,   held  out  his  arms  wide,   as  he  said,  — 

"  Jiarie,  via  viie  !  embrasse-moi  ;  "  and  then,  not  waiting 
for  a  compliance  with  the  request,  sprang  forward,  and 
clasped  the  buxom  landlady  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her 
on  each  cheek,  with  an  air  compounded  of  true  feeling  and 
stage  effect. 

"Here's  my  friend  and  travelling  companion,  Henry 
Talbot,  come  to  share  your  hospitality,  Mary,"  said  he  in 
English,  to  which  the  slightest  foreign  accent  lent  a  tone  of 
recitative.     "One  of  us,   Mary, — one  of  us." 

The  individual  alluded  to  had  by  this  time  dropped  his 
cloak  to  the  ground,  and  displayed  the  figure  of  a  slight 
and  very  young  man,  whose  features  were  singularly  hand- 
some, save  for  a  look  of  great  effeminacy;  his  complexion 

VOL.  I.  —  7 


98  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

was  fair  as  a  girl's,  and,  flushed  by  exercise,  the  tint  upon 
his  cheek  was  of  a  pale  rose  color;  he  was  dressed  in  a 
riding-coat  and  top-boots,  which,  in  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
were  worn  short,  and  wrinkled  around  the  leg.  His  hair 
he  wore  without  powder,  and  long  upon  his  neck ;  a  heavy 
riding-whip,  ornamented  with  silver,  the  only  weapon  he 
carried,  composed  his  costume,  —  one  as  unlike  his  com- 
panion's as  could  be. 

Captain  Jacques  Flahault  was  a  stout-built,  dark-com- 
plexioned fellow,  of  some  four  or  five-and-forty,  his  face  a 
grotesque  union  of  insolence  and  drollery,  the  eyes  black 
as  jet,  shaded  by  brows  so  arched  as  to  give  always  the 
idea  of  laughing  to  a  countenance  the  lower  part  of  which, 
shrouded  in  beard  and  moustache,  was  intended  to  look 
stern  and   savage. 

His  dress  was  a  short  blue  frock,  beneath  which  he  wore 
a  jersey  shirt,  striped  in  various  colors,  across  which  a 
broad  buff  leather  belt,  loosely  slung,  supported  four  pistols 
and  a  dirk.  Jack-boots  reached  about  the  middle  of  the 
thigh,  and  were  attached  to  his  waist  by  thongs  of  strong 
leather,  —  no  needless  precaution,  apparently,  as  in  their 
looseness  the  wearer  might  at  any  moment  have  stepped 
freely  from  them.  A  black  handkerchief,  loosely  knotted 
round  his  neck,  displayed  a  throat  brawny  and  massive  as 
a  bull's,  and  imparted  to  the  whole  head  an  appearance  of 
great  size,  —  the  first  impression  every  stranger  conceived 
regarding  him. 

"Ah,  ah!  Lawler,  you  here?  How  goes  it,  my  old 
friend?  Sit  down  here,  and  tell  me  all  your  rogueries  since 
we  parted.  —  Par  St.  Pierre^  Henry,  this  is  the  veriest 
frijjon  in  the  kingdom,"  —  Talbot  bowed,  and,  with  a 
sweetly  courteous  smile,  saluted  Lanty,  as  if  accepting  the 
speech  in  the  light  of  an  introduction,  — "a  fellow  that,  in 
the  way  of  his  trade,  could  cheat  the  Saint  Pere  himself." 

"Where  's  the  others.  Captain  Jack?  "  said  Mary,  whose 
patience  all  this  time  endured  a  severe  trial,  — "  where 's 
the  rest?  " 

''''Place  pour  le  potage^  ma  mie  !  —  soup  before  a  story. 
You  shall  hear  everything  by-and-by.  Let  us  have  the 
supper  at  once." 


AN  EVENING  AT  "MARY"  M'KELLY'S.  99 

Lanty  chimed  in  a  willing  assent  to  this  proposition; 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  meat  smoked  upon  the  table, 
around  which  the  whole  party  took  their  places  with  evident 
good-will. 

While  Mary  performed  her  attentions  as  hostess  by  heap- 
ing up  each  plate,  and  ever  supplying  the  deficiency  caused 
by  the  appetite  of  the  guests,  the  others  eat  on  like  hungry 
men,  — Captain  Jacques  alone  intermingling  with  the  duties 
of  the  table  a  stray  remark  from  time  to  time. 

^'' Ventrebleu^  how  it  blows!  If  it  veers  more  to  the 
south' ard,  there  will  be  a  heavy  strain  on  that  cable. 
Trinquons^  mon  ami,  trinquons  toujours.  Ma  belle  Marie, 
you  eat  nothing." 

'"Tis  unasy  I  am.  Captain  Jack,  about  what's  become 
of  the  others,"  said  Mrs.   M' Kelly. 

"Another  bumper,  ma  mie,  and  I  'm  ready  for  the  story, 
—  the  more  as  it  is  a  brief  one.  Allans  done,  — now  for  it. 
We  left  the  bay  about  nine  o'clock,  or  half-past,  perhaps, 
intending  to  push  forward  to  the  glen  at  once,  and  weigh 
with  the  morning's  tide;  for  it  happens  that  this  time  our 
cargo  is  destined  for  a  small  creek  on  the  northwest  coast, 
our  only  business  here  being  to  land  my  friend  Harry,"  — 
here  Talbot  bowed  and  smiled,  —  "  and  to  leave  two  hogs- 
heads of  Bordeaux  for  that  very  true-hearted,  kind,  bi'ave 
homme  Hemsworth,  at  the  Lodge  there.  You  remember 
last  winter  we  entered  into  a  compact  with  him  to  stock 
his  cellar,  provided  no  information  of  our  proceedings 
reached  the  revenue  from  any  quarter.  Well,  the  wine  was 
safely  stored  in  one  of  the  caves  on  the  coast,  and  we 
started  with  a  light  conscience;  we  had  neither  despatches 
nor  run-brandy  to  trouble  us,  —  nothing  to  do  but  eat  our 
supper,  saltier  madame,"  —  here  he  turned  round,  and,  with 
an  air  of  mock  respect,  kissed  Mary's  hand, — ''and  get 
afloat  again.  As  we  came  near  the  Lodge,  I  determined 
to  make  my  visit  a  brief  one,  and  so,  leaving  all  my  party, 
Harry  included,  outside,  I  approached  the  house,  which,  to 
my  surprise,  showed  lights  from  nearly  every  window. 
This  made  me  cautious,  and  so  I  crept  stealthily  to  a  low 
window,  across  which  the  curtain  was  but  loosely  drawn, 
and,  77io7't  de  ma  vie  !  what  did  I  behold  but  the  prettiest 
face  in   Europe.       Tin  ange  de  beaiite.      She   was    leaning 


100  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

over  a  table  copying  a  drawing,  or  a  painting  of  some  sort 
or  other.  Tete  bleue  !  here  was  a  surprise.  I  had  never 
seen  her  before,  although  I  was  with  Hemsworth  a  dozen 
times." 

"Go  on, — go  on!"  said  Lanty,  whose  curiosity  was 
extreme  to  hear  what  happened  next. 

^''Eh  hien^  1  tried  the  sash,  but  it  was  fastened.  I  then 
went  round  the  house,  and  examined  the  other  windows, 
one  after  the  other  —  all  the  same.  Que  fa  ire?  I  thought 
of  knocking  boldly  at  the  back  door,  but  then  I  should  have 
no  chance  of  a  peep  at  la  belle  in  that  way." 

"What  did  you  want  with  a  peep  at  her?"  asked  Mary, 
gruffly. 

"  DiabJe  !  what  did  I  want?  Pour  V admirer,  V adorer^  — 
or  at  least  to  make  my  respects,  as  becomes  a  stranger  and 
a  Frenchman.  Pour siiiv ens.  There  was  no  entree  without 
some  noise,  so  I  preferred  the  room  she  was  in  to  any  other, 
and  gently  disengaging  my  dirk,  I  slipped  it  between  the 
two  sashes,  to  lift  up  the  latch  that  fastened  them.  Mor- 
hleu!  the  weapon  slipped  and  came  slap  through  the  pane, 
with  a  tremendous  fracas.  She  started  up,  and  screamed  — 
there  was  no  use  in  any  more  delay.  I  put  my  foot  through 
the  window,  and  pushed  open  the  sash  at  once ;  but,  before 
I  was  well  in  the  room,  the  bells  were  ringing  in  every  quar- 
ter of  the  house,  and  men's  voices  calling  aloud,  and  shout- 
ing to  each  other ;  when  suddenly  the  door  opened,  and 
whiz  went  a  pistol-ball  close  by  my  head,  and  shattered 
the  shutter  behind  me.  My  fellows  outside,  hearing  the 
shot,  unslung  their  pieces,  and,  before  I  could  get  down  to 
them,  poured  in  a  volley,  —  why,  wherefore,  or  upon  whom, 
the  devil  himself,  that  instigated  them,  can  tell.  The  garri- 
son mustered  strong,  however,  and  replied  —  that  they  did, 
by  Jove !  —  for  one  of  ours,  Emile  de  Louvois,  is  badly 
wounded.  I  sounded  the  retreat,  but  the  scoundrels  would 
not  mind  me ;  and,  before  I  was  able  to  prevent  it,  tete 
hleue  !  they  had  got  round  to  the  farm-3^ard,  and  set  fire  to  ' 
the  corn-stacks ;  in  a  second,  the  corn  and  hay  blazed  up, 
and  enveloped  house  and  all  in  smoke.  I  sounded  the 
retreat  once  more,  and  off  the  villains  scampered,  with  poor 
Emile,  to  the  boat;  and  I,  finding  my  worthy  friend  here  an 
inactive  spectator  of  the  whole  from  a  grove  near  the  road. 


AN   EVENING   AT   "MARY"   M'KELLY'S.  101 

resolved  not  to  give  up  my  supper  —  and  so,  me  void! 
But  come,  can  none  of  you  explain  this  affair?  What  is 
Hems  worth  doing,  with  all  this  armed  household,  and  this 
captive  princess  ?  " 

'•  Is  the  Lodge  burned  down?"  said  Lanty,  whose  interest 
in  the  inhabitants  had  a  somewhat  selfish  origin. 

•'  No ;  the}^  got  the  fire  under.  I  saw  a  wild-looking  devil 
mount  one  of  the  ricks  with  a  great  canvas  sail,  all  wetted, 
and  drag  it  over  the  burning  stack ;  and  before  I  left  the 
place  the  Lodge  was  quite  safe." 

"  I  'm  sorry  for  it,"  said  Mary,  with  a  savage  determina- 
tion. ''I'm  sorry  to  the  heart's  core.  Luck  nor  grace 
never  was  in  the  glen  since  the  first  stone  of  it  was  laid  — 
nor  will  it  be  again,  till  it  is  a  ruin  !  Why  did  n't  they  lay 
it  in  ashes  when  they  were  about  it?  " 

"  Faith,  it  seemed  to  me,"  said  Talbot,  in  a  low,  soft 
voice,  "  they  would  have  asked  nothing  better.  I  never 
saw  such  bulldogs  in  my  life.  It  was  all  you  could  do, 
Flahault,  to  call  them  off." 

"True  enough,"  replied  Jacques,  laughing.  "They  en- 
joy a  hrisee  like  that  with  all  their  hearts." 

"The  English  won't  stay  long  here,  after  this  night," 
was  Lanty's  sage  reflection,  but  one  which  he  did  not  utter 
aloud  in  the  present  company.  And  then,  in  accordance 
with  Jacques'  request,  he  proceeded  to  explain  by  what 
different  tenants  the  Lodge  became  occupied  since  his  last 
visit ;  and  that  an  English  baronet  and  his  daughter,  with  a 
household  of  many  servants,  had  replaced  Hemsworth  and 
his  few  domestics.  At  every  stage  of  the  recital,  Flahault 
stopped  the  narrative,  to  give  him  time  to  laugh.  To  him 
the  adventure  was  full  of  drollery.  Even  the  recollection 
of  his  wounded  comrade  little  damped  his  enjoyment  of 
a  scene  which  miglit  have  been  attended  by  the  saddest 
results ;  and  he  chuckled  a  hundred  times  over  what  he 
suspected  the  Englishman  must  feel  on  this  his  first  visit  to 
Ireland. 

"I  could  rob  the  mail  to-morrow,  for  the  mere  fun  of 
reading  his  letters  to  his  friends,"  said  he.  ^^Morhleu! 
what  a  description  of  Irish  rapparees,  five  hundred  in  number, 
armed  with  pikes  !  " 


102  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"  I  wish  ye  'd  give  him  the  cause  to  do  it,"  said  Mary, 
bitterly.  "What  brings  them  here?  who  wants  them,  or 
looks  for  them?" 

*'You  are  right,  Mary,"  said  Talbot,  mildly.  "Ireland 
for  the  Irish  !  " 

'^  Ay,  Ireland  for  the  Irish  !  "  repeated  Mary  and  Lanty, 
and  the  sentiment  was  drunk  with  all  the  honors  of  a  favored 
toast. 

For  some  time  the  party  continued  to  discuss  Flahault's 
story,  and  calculate  on  every  possible  turn  the  affair  might 
give  rise  to ;  all  agreeing,  finally,  on  one  point,  that  Sir 
Marmaduke  would  scarcely  venture  to  protract  his  stay  in 
a  country  where  his  visit  had  been  signalized  by  such  a 
reception.  The  tone  of  the  conversation  seemed  little  to 
accord  with  Captain  Jacques'  humor,  whose  convivial  tem- 
perament found  slight  pleasure  in  protracted  or  argumenta- 
tive discussions  of  any  kind. 

'''•Que  le  dlable  Veinporte!''  cried  he,  at  last.  "This 
confounded  talk  has  stopped  the  bottle  this  half-hour. 
Come,  Talbot,  let 's  have  a  song,  my  lad ;  never  shake  your 
head,  mon  enfant. Well,  then,  here  goes." 

Thus  saying,  Flahault  pushed  back  his  chair  a  little  from 
the  table,  and  in  a  rich,  deep,  bass  voice,  which  rang 
through  the  high  rafters  of  the  cabin,  chanted  out  the 
following  rude  verses  to  a  French  vaudeville  air,  giving  the 
the  final  e  of  the  French  words,  at  the  end  of  each  line, 
that  peculiar  accentuation  of  a,  which  made  the  word  sound 
contrehanda. 

Though  this  information  as  to  Captain  Jacques'  per- 
formance seems  of  little  moment,  yet  such  was  the  fact, 
that  any  spirit  the  doggerel  possessed  could  only  be  attri- 
buted to  the  manner  of  the  singer,  and  the  effect  produced 
by  the  intonation  we  have  mentioned. 


LA  CONTREBANDE. 

A  bumper,  "  mes  enfans,"  to  swallow  your  care, 
A  full  bumper,  we  pledge,  "  a  I'lrlande;  " 

The  land  of  "  belles  femmes,  le  pays  de  bonne  chere 
Et  toujours  de  la  Contrebande." 


AN  EVENING  AT  "MARY"   M'KELLY'S.  103 

Some  like  to  make  love,  and  some  like  to  make  war, 

Some  of  beauty  obey  "  la  commaude ;  " 
But  what  is  the  glance  from  an  eye,  "  bleu  "  or  "  noir," 

Except  it  be  "  la  Contrebande." 

When  a  prince  takes  the  cash  that  a  peasant  can't  spare, 

And  lets  him  lie  down  "  sur  la  lande," 
Call  it  as  you  like,  but  the  truth  is,  I  swear, 

"  Cast  bien  pire  que  la  Contrebande." 

Stolen  kisses  are  ever  the  sweetest,  we  're  told. 

They  sink  like  a  "  navire  qui  fondre ;  " 
And  what 's  true  of  a  kiss  is  the  same,  too,  of  gold, 

They  're  both  in  their  way,  "  Contrebande  !  " 

When  kings  take  your  money,  they  won't  even  say, 

"  Mon  ami,  que  Uieu  vous  le  rende  ; " 
While  even  the  priest,  for  a  blessing  takes  pay, 

"  C'est  partout  et  toujours  Contrebande." 

The  good  things  of  life  are  not  equal,  I  'm  sure, 

Then  how  pleasant  to  make  the  "  amende  ;  " 
To  take  from  the  wealthy,  and  give  to  the  poor, 

"  Voila  ce  que  j'appelle  Contrebande." 

Yet,  as  matters  go,  one  must  not  deem  it  strange. 

That  even  "  la  France  et  I'lrlande," 
If  good  wishes  and  friendship  they  simply  exchange, 

There  are  folks  that  call  that  "  Contrebande." 


*'  Vive  la  Contrebande,  mes  amis !  "  shouted  out  Jacques, 
as  he  arose,  glass  in  hand,  and  made  the  room  ring  with 
the  toast.  And  every  voice  repeated  the  words,  in  such 
imitations  as  they  were  able. 

"'Tis  an  elegant  song,  any  way,"  said  Lanty,  "if  one 
only  understood  it  all ;  and  the  tune 's  mighty  like  the 
'  Cruiskeen  Lawn.' " 

"Well,  Harry,"  said  Flahault,  slapping  his  friend  on  the 
shoulder,  "will  the  song  persuade  you  to  turn  smuggler? 
I  fear  not.  You  'd  rather  practise  your  own  '  Contrebande ' 
among  the  bright  eyes  and  dark  locks  of  the  capital.  Well, 
there  are  worse  'metiers.'  I  have  had  a  turn  at  it  these 
fifteen  years,  and  whether  on  the  waters  of  Ontario  or 
Champlain,  or  scudding  along  under  the  fog-banks  of  the 


104  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Scheldt,  I  never  grew  weary  of  it.  But  now  for  a  little 
business  talk ;  where  is  the  Padre  ?  where  's  Father  Luke  ? 
was  he  not  to  have  been  here  to-night?  " 

Mary  whispered  the  answer  in  the  captain's  ear. 

"Ah,  parbleu ! "  exclaimed  he,  aloud  —  "is  it  so? 
Practising  a  little  '  Contrebande '  of  his  own  —  trying  to 
see  a  poor  fellow  safe  over  the  frontier,  into  the  next 
world." 

"  Fie,  for  shame,  Captain  Jacques  !  "  said  Mary,  with  pious 
horror.     "  That 's  not  the  way  to  talk  of  the  holy  offices." 

"  I  wish  I  had  old  Maurice  Dulang  here,  the  priest  of 
Trois  Rivieres,  —  he  's  the  boy  could  despatch  them  without 
trouble." 

Neither  Lanty  nor  Mary  gave  any  encouragement  to 
Flahault's  new  turn  of  the  conversation,  and  so,  addressing 
himself  to  Talbot,  he  went  on,  — 

"We  were  dining  together  one  day  at  the  little  inn  at 
Trois  Rivieres,  when  a  messenger  came  from  Lachegon 
for  the  P^re  to  administer  the  last  rites  to  a  '  mourant.' 
Maurice  promised  to  be  there  in  half-an-hour,  but  never 
stirred ;  and  though  three  other  messengers  came  for  him, 
the  answer  was  all  the  same,  until  at  last  came  word, 
'  Cest  tro}?  tard^  il  est  mort.' 

"  '  Trop  tardf  '  said  Maurice,  '  not  a  bit  of  it;  give  me  a 
pen  and  ink  and  some  paper.'  With  that  he  folded  a  piece, 
note  fashion,  and  wrote,  — 

"  Mox  CHER  Pierre,  —  Fais  ton  petit  possible  pour  ce  pau\Te 
diable,  qui  s'est  glisse  hors  du  monde  sans  mes  soins.  Apparem- 
ment  il  etait  bien  presse ;  mais  tu  t'arrangeras  pour  le  mieux. 

"  Ton  viel  ami, 

"Maurice  Dulang. 

•'  St.  Pierre,  a  la  Conciergerie  du  Paradis. 

"'  Put  that  in  his  mouth,'  said  Maurice,  '  and  there's  no 
fear  of  him.'" 

" 'T  was  a  blessed  gospel  he  gave  him,"  said  Mary,  who 
did  not  comprehend  the  French  portion  of  the  story,  "and 
sure  it's  as  good  as  anything." 

"We  all  thought   so,  Mary.     Poor  Maurice  related  the 


AN  EVENING  AT  "MARY"  M'KELLY'S.  105 

story  at  Lyons,  when  he  was  led  out  to  the  guillotine ;  but 
though  the  Commissaire  laughed  heartily,  and  enjoyed  it 
much,  they  had  found  a  breviary  in  his  portmanteau,  and 
they  could  n't  let  him  off.  Pauvre  bete !  To  travel  about 
the  world  with  the  '  pi^ce  de  conviction'  in  his  possession. 
What,  Harry,  no  more  wine  ?  " 

"  I  thank  you,  no  more  for  me,  although  that  claret  is  a 
temptation." 

"A  bouquet,  every  glass  of  it!  What  say  you,  Master 
Lawler, — does  it  suit  your  palate?" 

"  I  begin  to  think  it  a  taste  cold  or  so  by  this  time,"  said 
Lanty;  "I'm  not  genteel  enough  for  wine,  God  help  me. 
But  it 's  time  to  turn  in,  anyhow,  —  and  there 's  Mary  asleep 
already." 

"  I  don't  stir  till  I  finish  the  flask,"  said  Jacques,  firmly;- 
"  and  if  you  won't  drink,  you  need  n't  grudge  me  your 
company.  It 's  hard  to  say  when  we  meet  again.  You  go 
northward,  Talbot,  isn't  that  so?" 

"Yes;  and  that's  the  point  I  wish  to  come  to:  where 
and  how  shall  I  find  a  mount?  —  I  depended  on  this  priest 
you  spoke  of  to  meet  me,  but  he  has  not  made  his 
appearance." 

"  You  never  fell  upon  your  legs  more  fortunately  :  here  's 
your  man  for  a  horse,  all  Ireland  over.  Eh,  Lanty,  what 's 
to  be  had  now  ?  " 

"  Devil  a  thing  can  be  got  for  love  or  money,"  said  Lanty. 
"If  the  gentleman  only  told  me  yesterday  —  " 

"Yesterday,  Master  Lanty,  we  were  riding  white  horses 
in  the  Western  Ocean,  —  but  that's  gone  by ;  let  us  talk  of 
to-day." 

"My  own  hackney  is  here  in  the  stable.  If  his  honor 
likes  him,  I  '11  sell  him ;  but  he 's  a  fancy  beast,  and  must 
have  a  fancy  price." 

"  Has  he  strength  and  speed  for  a  fast  ride?  "  said  Talbot, 
"  and  will  his  condition  bear  it?  " 

"  I  '11  answer  for  it  —  you  may  push  on  to  Cork  in  a  hand 
gallop,  if  you  give  him  ten  minutes' rest  and  a  gJass  of 
whiskey  at  Macroom." 

"  That's  enough;  what's  his  price?" 

"  Take  a  look  at  him  first,"  replied  Lanty;   "for  if  you 


106  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

are  judge  of  a  beast,  you  '11  not  refuse  what  I  ask  you." 
With  these  words  he  lighted  a  candle,  and  placed  it  in  an 
old  iron  lantern  which  hung  against  the  wall,  and  opening 
a  small  door  at  the  back  of  the  cabin,  proceeded,  by  a  nar- 
row passage  cut  in  the  rock,  towards  the  stable,  followed  by 
Talbot,  Flahault  remaining  where  he  was,  as  if  sunk  in 
meditation.  Scarcely,  however,  had  the  two  figures  dis- 
appeared in  the  distance,  when  he  shook  Mary  violently 
by  the  shoulder,  and  whispered  in  a  quick,  but  collected 
tone,  — 

''  Mary  —  Mary,  I  say  —  is  that  fellow  all  safe?  " 

*'Ay,  is  he  safe?"  said  she,  resuming  her  wonted  calm- 
ness in  a  second.     "  Why  do  you  ask  now?  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  why  —  for  myself  I  care  not  a  sou  —  I  'm 
here  to-day,  away  to-morrow ;  but  Talbot 's  deep  in  the 
business  —  his  neck 's  in  the  halter  —  can  we  trust  Lawler 
on  his  account  —  a  man  of  rank  and  large  fortune  as  he 
is  cannot  be  spared  —  what  say  you?" 

"You  may  trust  him,  captain,"  said  Mary;  "he  knows 
his  life  would  not  be  his  own  two  hours  if  he  turned  in- 
former ;  and  then  this  Mr.  Talbot,  he 's  a  great  man,  you 
tell  me  ?  " 

"He's  a  near  kinsman  of  a  great  peer,  and  has  a  heavy 
stake  in  the  game  —  that 's  all  I  know,  Mary  —  and,  indeed, 
the  present  voyage  was  more  to  bring  him  over  than  any- 
thing else.     But  hush,  here  they  come." 

"You  shall  have  your  money  —  you've  no  objection  to 
French  gold,  I  hope  —  for  several  years  I  have  seen  no 
other,"  said  Talbot,  entering. 

"I  know  it  well,"  said  Lanty,  "  and  would  just  as  soon 
take  it  as  if  it  had  King  George  on  it." 

"  You  said  forty  pounds  — fifty  louis  is  not  far  off  —  will 
that  do?"  said  the  youth,  as  he  emptied  a  heavily  filled 
purse  of  gold  upon  the  table,  and  pushed  fifty  pieces  towards 
the  horse-dealer. 

"As  well  as  the  best,  sir,"  said  Lanty,  as  he  stored  the 
money  in  his  long  leathern  pocket-book,  and  placed  it 
within  his  breast-pocket. 

"Will  Mrs.  M'Kelly  accept  this  small  token  as  a  keep- 
sake ?  "  said  the  youth,  while  he  took  from  around  his  neck 


AN  EVENING  AT  "MARY"  M'KELLY'S.  107 

a  fine  gold  chain  of  Venetian  work,  and  threw  it  gallantly 
ever  Mary's.  ''  This  is  the  first  shelter  1  have  found,  after 
a  long  exile  from  my  native  land;  and  you,  my  old  com- 
rade, I  have  left  you  the  pistols  you  took  a  fancy  to ;  they 
are  in  the  lugger.  And  so,  now,  good-bye  all ;  I  must  take 
to  the  road  at  once :  I  should  like  to  have  met  the  priest,  but 
all  chance  of  that  seems  over." 

Many  and  affectionate  were  the  parting  salutations  be- 
tween the  young  man  and  the  others ;  for,  although  he  had 
mingled  but  little  in  the  evening's  conversation,  his  mild  and 
modest  demeanor,  added  to  the  charm  of  his  good  looks, 
had  won  their  favorable  opinions ;  besides  that  he  was 
pledged  to  a  cause  which  had  all  their  sympathies. 

While  the  last  good-bye  was  being  spoken,  Lanty  had 
saddled  and  bridled  the  hackney,  and  led  him  to  the  door. 
The  storm  was  still  raging  fiercely,  and  the  night  dark  as 
ever. 

''  You'd  better  go  a  little  ways  up  the  glen,  Lanty,  beside 
him."  said  Mary,  as  she  looked  out  into  the  wild  and  dreary 
night. 

"  'T  is  what  I  mean  to  do,"  said  Lanty ;  "  I  '11  show  him 
as  far  as  the  turn  of  the  road." 

Though  the  stranger  declined  the  proffered  civility,  Lanty 
was  firm  in  his  resolution,  and  the  young  man,  vaulting 
lightly  into  the  saddle,  called  out  a  last  farewell  to  the 
others,  and  rode  on  beside  his  guide. 

Mary  had  scarcely  time  to  remove  the  remains  of  the 
supper,  when  Lanty  re-entered  the  cabin. 

"He's  the  noble-hearted  fellow  any  way,"  said  he, 
"  never  took  a  shilling  off  the  first  price  I  asked  him ;  "  and 
with  that  he  put  his  hand  into  his  breast-pocket  to  examine 
once  more  the  strange  coin  of  France.  With  a  start,  a  tre- 
mendous oath  broke  from  him.  "  My  money  —  my  pocket- 
book  is  lost !  "  exclaimed  he,  in  wild  excitement,  while  he 
ransacked  pocket  after  pocket  of  his  dress.  "  Bad  luck  to 
that  glen  !  I  dropped  it  out  there  ;  and  with  the  torrent  of 
water  that's  falling  it  will  never  be  found.  Och,  murther, 
this  is  too  bad !  " 

In  vain  the  others  endeavored  to  comfort  and  console  him  ; 
all  their  assurances  of  its  safety,  and   the  certainty  of  its 


108  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

being  discovered  the  next  morning,  were  in  vain.  Lanty 
relighted  the  lantern,  and  muttering  maledictions  on  the 
weather,  the  road,  and  his  own  politeness,  he  issued  forth  to 
search  after  his  treasure,  —  an  occupation  which,  with  all  his 
perseverance,  was  unsuccessful ;  for  when  day  was  breaking, 
he  was  still  groping  along  the  road,  cursing  his  hard  fate, 
and  everything  which  had  any  share  in  inflicting  it. 

"  The  money  is  not  the  worst  of  it,"  said  Lanty,  as  he 
threw  himself  down,  exhausted  and  worn  out,  on  his  bed. 
"The  money's  not  the  worst  of  it  —  there  was  papers  in 
that  book  I  would  n't  have  seen  for  double  the  amount." 

Long  after  the  old  smuggler  was  standing  out  to  sea  the 
next  day,  Lanty  Lawler  wandered  backwards  and  forwards 
in  the  glen,  now  searching  among  the  wet  leaves  that  lay  in 
heaps  by  the  wayside,  or,  equally  in  vain,  sounding  every 
rivulet  and  watercourse  which  swept  past.  His  search  was 
fruitless ;  and  well  it  might  be :  the  road  was  strewn  with 
fragments  of  rocks  and  tree-tops  for  miles,  while  even  yet 
the  swollen  stream  tore  wildly  past,  cutting  up  the  cause- 
way in  its  passage,  and  foaming  on  amid  the  wreck  of  the 
hurricane. 

Yet  the  entire  of  that  day  did  he  persevere,  regardless 
of  the  beating  rain,  and  the  cold,  drifting  wind,  to  pace  to 
and  fro,  his  heart  bent  upon  recovering  what  he  had  lost. 

' '  Yer  sowl  is  set  upon  money ;  devil  a  doubt  of  it, 
Lanty,"  said  Mary,  as,  dripping  with  wet,  and  shaking  with 
cold,  he  at  last  re-entered  the  cabin:  "  sorra  one  of  me 
would  go  rooting  there  for  a  crock  of  goold,  if  I  was  sure 
to  find  it." 

"  It  is  not  the  money,  Mary,  I  tould  you  before,  — it's 
something  else  was  in  the  pocket-book,"  said  he,  half 
angrily,  while  he  sat  down  to  brood  in  silence  over  his 
misfortune. 

" 'T  is  a  letter  from  your  sweetheart,  then,"  said  she, 
with  a  spice  of  jealous  malice  in  her  manner,  for  Lanty  had 
more  than  once  paid  his  addresses  to  Mary,  whose  wealth 
was  reported  to  be  something  considerable. 

"  Maybe  it  is,  and  maybe  it  is  not,"  was  the  cranky 
reply. 

"Well,   she'll  have  a  saving    husband,   any  way,"  said 


AN  EVENING  AT   "MARY"   M'KELLY'S.  109 

Mary,  tartly,   "  and  one  that  knows  how  to  keep  a  good 
grip  of  the  money." 

The  horse-dealer  made  no  answer  to  this  encomium  on  his 
economy,  but  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  pondered  on 
his  loss;  meanwhile  Mrs.  M'Kelly's  curiosity,  piqued  by 
her  ineffectual  efforts  to  obtain  information,  grew  each 
instant  stronger,  and  at  last  became  irrepressible. 

"Can't  you  say  what  it  is  you've  lost?  Sure  there's 
many  a  one  goes  by  here  of  a  Saturday  to  market  —  and  if 
you  leave  the  token  —  " 

"  There 's  no  use  in  it  —  sorra  bit,"  said  he,  despondingly. 

"  You  know  your  own  saycrets  best,"  said  Mary,  foiled 
at  every  effort;  "  and  they  must  be  the  dhroU  saycrets  too, 
when  you're  so  much  afraid  of  their  being  found  out." 

"  Troth,  then,"  said  Lanty,  as  a  ray  of  his  old  gallantry 
shot  across  his  mind,  —  "troth,  then,  there  isn't  one  I'd 
tell  a  saycret  to  as  soon  as  yourself,  Mary  M'Kelly;  you 
know  the  most  of  my  heart  already,  and  why  would  n't  you 
know  it  all?" 

"  Faix,  it's  little  I  care  to  hear  about  it,"  said  Mary, 
with  an  affectation  of  indifference  the  most  finished  coquetry 
could  not  have  surpassed.  "Ye  may  tell  it,  or  no,  just  as 
you  plaze." 

"That's  it  now,"  cried  Lanty,  —  "that's  the  way  of 
women,  the  whole  world  over;  keep  never  minding  them, 
and  bad  luck  to  peace  or  ease  you  get ;  and  then  try  and 
plaze  them,  and  see  what  thanks  you  have.  I  was  going 
to  tell   you  all  about  it." 

"And  why  don't  you?"  interrupted  she,  half  fearing 
lest  she  might  have  pulled  the  cord  over-tight  ^already,  — 
"why  don't  you  tell  it,  Lanty  dear?" 

These  last  words  settled  the  matter.  Like  the  feather 
that  broke  the  camel's  back,  these  few  and  slight  syllables 
were  all  that  was  wanting  to  overcome  the  horse-dealer's 
resistance. 

"  Well,  here  it  is  now,"  said  he,  casting,  as  he  spoke, 
a  cautious  glance  around,  lest  anj^  chance  listener  should 
overhear  him.  "  There  was  in  that  pocket-book  a  letter, 
sealed  with  three  big  seals,  that  Father  Luke  gave  me 
yesterday  morning,  and  said  to  me,   '  Lanty  Lawler,  I  'm 


110  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

going  over  to  Ballyvourney,  and  after  that  I  'm  going  on  to 
Cork,  and  it's  mighty  likely  I'll  go  as  far  as  Dublin,  for 
the  Bishop  may  be  there,  and  if  he  is,  I  must  follow  him ; 
and  here 's  a  letter,'  says  he,  '  that  you  must  give  the 
O'Donoghue  with  your  own  hands/  —  them  was  the  words, 
—  '  with  your  own  hands,  Lanty ;  and  now  swear  you  '11 
not  leave  it  to  any  one  else,  but  do  as  I  tell  you ; '  and, 
faix,  I  took  my  oath  of  it,  and  see,  now,  it's  lost.  May  I 
never,  but  I  don't  know  how  I  '11  ever  face  him  again ;  and 
sure  God  knows  what  was  in  it." 

"  And  there  was  three  seals  on  it,"  said  Mary,  musingly, 
as  if  such  extraordinary  measures  of  secrecy  could  bode 
nothing  good. 

"Each  of  them  as  big  as  a  half-crown  —  and  it  was 
thick  inside  too ;  musha,  't  was  the  evil  day  I  ever  set  eyes 
on  it !  "  And  with  this  allusion  to  the  lost  money,  which, 
by  the  adroitness  of  superstition,  he  coupled  with  the  bad 
luck  the  letter  had  brought  him,  Lanty  took  his  farewell 
of  Mary,  and,  with  a  heavy  heart;  set  out  on  his  journey. 


CHAPTER   XL 

MISTAKES    ON    ALL    SIDES.  ^ 

The  occurrence  so  briefly  mentioned  by  Flahault,  of  the 
night  attack  on  the  Lodge,  was  not  so  easily  treated  by  the 
residents;  and  so  many  different  versions  of  the  affair  were 
in  circulation  that  Miss  Travers,  the  only  one  whose  infor- 
mation could  have  thrown  any  light  upon  it,  was  confused 
by  the  many  marvels  she  heard,  and  totally  unable  to  recall 
to  mind  what  had  really  taken  place.  Sir  Marmaduke  him- 
self examined  the  servants,  and  compared  their  testimony; 
but  fear  and  exaggeration  conspired  to  make  the  evidence 
valueless ;  some  asserting  that  there  were  at  least  a  hundred 
assailants  surrounding  the  house  at  one  time,  others,  that 
they  wore  a  kind  of  uniform,  and  had  their  faces  blackened. 
Some  again  had  seen  parties  prowling  about  the  premises 
during  the  day,  and  could  positively  swear  to  one  man,  "  a 
tall  fellow  in  a  ragged  blue  coat,  and  without  shoes  or 
stockings,"  —  no  uncommon  phenomenon  in  those  parts. 
But  the  butler  negatived  all  these  assertions,  and  stoutly 
maintained  that  there  had  been  neither  attack  nor  assail- 
ants; that  the  whole  affair  was  a  device  of  Terry's,  to  dis- 
play his  zeal  and  bravery;  and,  in  short,  that  he  had  set 
fire  to  the  rick  in  the  haggard,  and  "got  up  "  the  affray  for 
his  own  benefit. 

In  proportion  as  any  fact  occurred  to  throw  discredit  on 
the  testimony  of  each,  he  who  proffered  it  became  a  thou- 
sand times  more  firm  and  resolute  in  his  assertion;  cir- 
cumstances dubious  a  moment  before,  were  then  suddenly 
remembered  and  sworn  to,  with  numerous  little  aids  to 
corroboration  newly  recalled  to  mind.  To  one  point,  how- 
ever, all  the  evidence  more  or  less  converged,  and  that  was, 
to  accuse  Terry  of  being  the  cause,  or,  at  least,  an  accom- 


112  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

plice  in  the  transaction.  Poor  fellow!  his  own  devotedness 
had  made  enemies  for  him  everywhere;  the  alacrity  with 
which  he  mounted  the  burning  stack  was  an  offence  not 
soon  to  be  forgotten  by  those  who  neither  risked  life  nor 
limb,  nor  were  the  taunts  he  lavished  on  their  sluggish 
backwardness  to  be  forgiven  now.  Unhappily,  too,  Terry 
was  not  a  favorite  among  the  servants.  He  had  never 
learned  how  much  deference  is  due  from  the  ragged  man 
to  the  pampered  menial  of  a  rich  household;  he  had  not 
been  trained  to  that  subserviency  of  demeanor  which  should 
mark  the  intercourse  of  a  poor,  houseless,  friendless 
creature  like  himself,  with  the  tagged  and  lace-covered 
servants  of  a  wealthy  master.  Terry,  by  some  strange 
blunder  of  his  nature,  imagined  that  in  his  freedom  and 
independence  he  was  the  better  man  of  the  two.  He  knew 
that  to  do  nothing  was  the  prerogative  of  the  great;  and 
as  he  fulfilled  that  condition  to  a  considerable  extent,  he 
fancied  he  should  enjoy  its  privileges  also.  For  this  rea- 
son he  had  ever  regarded  the  w^hole  class  of  servants  as 
greatly  his  inferiors;  and  although  he  was  ready  and  will- 
ing to  peril  his  life  at  any  moment  for  Sir  Marmaduke  or 
his  daughter,  the  merest  commonplace  services  he  would 
refuse  to  the  others  without  a  moment's  hesitation.  Neither 
intimidation  could  awe,  nor  bribery  bend  him;  his  nature 
knew  not  what  fear  was  in  any  shape,  save  one,  —  that  of 
being  apprehended  and  shot  for  a  deserter;  and  as  to  any 
prospect  of  buying  his  good  offices,  that  was  totally  out 
of  the  question. 

In  an  Irish  household  Terry's  character  would  have  been 
appreciated  at  once.  The  respect  which  is  never  refused  to 
any  bereavement,  but  in  particular  to  that  greatest  of  all 
afflictions,  would  have  secured  for  him  there  both  forgive- 
ness and  affection,  —  his  waywardness  and  caprice  would 
have  been  a  law  to  the  least  good  tempered  servant  of  the 
family;  but  Sir  Marmaduke's  retainers  were  all  English, 
and  had  about  as  much  knowledge  of,  or  sympathy  with, 
such  a  creature,  as  he  himself  possessed  of  London  life  and 
manners. 

As  his  contempt  was  not  measured  by  any  scale  of  pru- 
dence, but  coolly  evinced  on  every  occasion  of  their  inter- 


MISTAKES   ON  ALL   SIDES.  113 

course,  they,  one  and  all,  detested  him  beyond  bounds,  — 
most  asserting  that  he  was  a  thorough-paced  knave,  whose 
folh^  was  a  garb  assumed  to  secure  a  life  of  idleness,  and 
all  regarding  him  in  the  light  of  a  spy,  ever  ready  to  betray 
them  to  their  master. 

When,  therefore,  one  after  another  the  servants  persisted 
in  either  openly  accusing  or  insinuating  suggestions  against 
Terry,  Sir  Marmaduke  became  sorely  puzzled.  It  was  true 
he  himself  had  witnessed  his  conduct  the  night  before;  but 
if  their  version  was  correct,  all  his  daring,  energy,  and 
boldness  were  so  many  proofs  against  him.  He  was, 
indeed,  reluctant  to  think  so  badly  of  the  poor  fellow;  but 
how  discredit  the  evidence  of  his  entire  household?  His 
butler  had  been  in  his  service  for  years  —  and,  oh !  what  a 
claim  for  all  the  exercise  of  evil  influence,  for  the  petty 
tyranny  of  the  low-minded  and  the  base-born,  tracking  its 
way  through  eavesdropping,  and  insinuating  its  venom  in 
moments  of  unguarded  freedom.  His  footman,  too  — 
But  why  go  on?  His  daughter  alone  rejected  the  notion 
with  indignation ;  but,  in  her  eager  vindication  of  the  poor 
fellow's  honor,  her  excitement  militated  against  success  — 
for  age  thus  ever  pronounces  upon  youth,  and  too  readily 
confounds  a  high-spirited  denunciation  of  wrong  with  a 
mistaken,  ill-directed  enthusiasm.  He  listened,  it  is  true, 
to  all  she  said  of  Terry's  devotedness  and  courage,  of  his 
artless,  simple  nature,  of  his  single-minded,  gentle  charac- 
ter; but,  by  a  fatal  tendency,  too  frequent  as  we  advance 
in  years,  the  scales  of  doubt  ever  lean  against,  and  not  to 
the  side  favorable  to,  human  nature,  and,  as  he  shook  his 
head  mournfully,  he  said,  — 

"  I  wish  I  did  not  suspect  him." 

"Send  for  him,  at  least,"  said  his  daughter,  as  with  an 
effort  she  restrained  the  emotion  that  agitated  her;  "speak 
to  him  yourself." 

''To  what  end,  my  child,  if  he  really  is  innocent?  " 

"Oh!"  yes;  indeed  —  indeed  he  is,"  she  exclaimed,  as  the 
tears  at  length  fell  fast  upon  her  cheek. 

"Well,  then,  be  it  so,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  as  he  rang 
the  bell,   and  ordered  Terry  to  be  sent  for. 

While  Miss   Travers   sat  with  her    head   buried    in    her 

VOL.    I.  —  8 


11- 


THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 


hands,  her  father  paced  slowly  up  and  down  the  room;  and 
so  absorbed  was  he  in  his  thoughts  that  he  had  not  noticed 
Terry,  who  had  meanwhile  entered  the  room,  and  now  stood 
respectfully  beside  the  door.  AVhen  the  old  man's  eyes  did 
fall  on  him,  he  started  back  with  horror  and  astonishment. 
The  poor  fellow's  clothes  were  actually  reduced  to  a  mass 
of  burned  rags ;  one  sleeve  was  completely  gone,  and  there 


could  be  seen  his  bare  arm,  scorched  and  blackened  by  the 
fire,  a  bandage  of  coarse  linen  wrapping  the  hand  and  fin- 
gers. A  deep  cut  marked  his  brow,  and  his  hair  was  still 
matted  and  clotted  with  the  blood,  while  his  face  was  of 
the  color  of  death  itself. 

"Can  you  doubt  him  now,  father?"  whispered  the  young 
girl,  as  she  gazed  on  the  poor  fellow,  whose  wandering  eyes 
roamed  over  the  ornaments  of  the  chamber,  in  total  uncon- 
sciousness of  himself  and  his  sufferings. 


MISTAKES   ON  ALL   SIDES.  115 

''Well,  Terry,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  after  a  pause, 
"what  account  do  you  give  of  last  night's  business?  " 

"That 's  a  picture  of  Keim-an-eigh,"  said  Terry,  as  he 
fixed  his  large  eyes,  open  to  their  widest  extent,  on  a 
framed  drawing  on  the  wall.  "There  's  the  Eagle's  Cliff, 
and  that 's  Murrow  Waterfall;  and  there's  the  lake  —  ay, 
and  see  if  there  is  n't  a  boat  on  it.  Well,  well,  but  it 's 
beautiful;  one  could  walk  up  the  shepherd's  path,  there, 
where  the  goat  is  —  ay,  there's  a  fellow  going  up  —  musha, 
that's  me  —  I'm  going  over  to  Cubber-ua-creena,  by  the 
short  cut." 

"Tell  me  all  you  know  of  what  happened  last  night, 
Terry,"  repeated  Sir  Marmaduke. 

"It  was  a  great  fire,  devil  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  Terry, 
eagerly.  "The  blaze  from  the  big  stack  was  twice  as  high 
as  the  roof;  but  when  I  put  the  wet  sail  of  the  boat  on  it, 
it  all  went  into  black  smoke;  it  nearly  choked  me." 

"How  did  it  catch  fire  first,  Terry?  Can  you  tell  us 
that?" 

"They  put  a  piece  of  tinder  in  it.  I  gave  them  an  ould 
rag,  and  they  rubbed  it  over  with  powder,  and  set  it 
burning." 

"Who  were  they  that  did  this?  " 

"The  fellows  that  threw  me  down.  What  fine  pistols 
they  had,  with  silver  all  over  them!  They  said  that  they 
would  not  beat  me  at  all,  and  they  did  n't  either.  When 
I  gave  them  the  rag,  they  said,  'Now,  my  lad,  we  '11  show 
you  a  fine  fire!  '  and,  true  for  them,  I  never  seen  a 
grander." 

In  this  vague,  rambling  strain  did  Terry  reply  to  every 
question  put  to  him,  his  thoughts  ever  travelling  in  one 
narrow  circle.  Who  they  were  that  fired  the  haggard,  how 
many,  and  what  kind  of  appearance  they  were,  he  knew 
nothing  of,  whatever;  for,  in  addition  to  his  natural  imbe- 
cility of  mind,  the  shock  of  the  adventure,  and  the  fever  of 
his  wounds  and  bruises,  had  utterly  routed  the  small  rem- 
nant of  understanding  which  usually  served  to  guide  him. 

To  one  question  only  did  his  manner  evince  hesitation 
and  doubt  in  the  answer,  and  that  was  when  Sir  Marma- 
uuke  asked  him  how  it  happened  that  he  should  have  been 


116  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

up  at  the  Lodge  at  so  late  an  hour,  since  the  doors  were  all 
locked  and  barred  a  considerable  time  previous. 

Terry's  face  flushed  scarlet  at  the  question,  and  hg  made 
no  reply.  He  stole  a  sharp,  quick  glance  towards  Miss 
Travers,  beneath  his  eyelids,  but  so  rapidly  withdrew  it 
again,  when  his  color  grew  deeper  and  deeper. 

The  old  man  marked  the  embarrassment,  and  all  his  sus- 
picions were  revived  at  once. 

"You  must  tell  me  this,  Terry,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  of 
some  impatience;  "I  insist  upon  knowing  it." 

"Yes,  Terry,  speak  it  out,  freely;  j^ou  can  have  no  cause 
for  concealment,"  said  Sybella,   encouragingly. 

"I  '11  not  tell  it,"  said  he,  after  a  pause  of  some  seconds, 
during  which  he  seemed  to  have  been  agitating  within  him- 
self all  the  reasons  on  either  side,  —  "I  '11  not  tell  it." 

"Come,  sir,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  angrily,  "I  must  and 
w^ill  know  this;  your  hesitation  has  a  cause,  and  it  shall  be 
known." 

The  boy  started  at  the  tones  so  unusual  to  his  ears,  and 
stared  at  the  speaker  in  mute  astonishment. 

"lam  not  displeased  with  you,  Terry;  at  least,  I  shall 
not  be  if  you  speak  freely  and  openly  to  me.  Now,  then, 
answer  my  question.  What  brought  you  about  the  Lodge 
at  so  late  an  hour?  " 

"I'll  not  tell,"  said  the  youth,  resolutely. 

"For  shame,  Terry,"  said  Sybella,  in  a  low,  soothing 
voice,  as  she  drew  near  him;  "how  can  you  speak  thus  to 
my  father?     You  would  not  have  me  displeased  with  you?  " 

The  boy's  face  grew  pale  as  death,  and  his  lips  quivered 
with  agitation,  while  his  eyes,  glazed  with  heavy  tears, 
were  turned  downwards;  still  he  never  spoke  a  word. 

"Well,  what  think  you  of  him  now?"  said  Sir  Marma- 
duke,  in  a  whisper,   to  his  daughter. 

"That  he  is  innocent,  — perfectly  innocent,"  replied  she, 
triumphantly.  "The  poor  fellow  has  his  own  reasons  — 
shallow  enough,  doubtless  —  for  his  silence ;  but  they  have 
no  spot  or  stain  of  guilt  about  them.  Let  me  try  if  I 
canncjt  unfathom  this  business;  I'll  go  down  to  the  boat- 
bouse." 

The  generous  girl  delayed  not  a  moment,   but  hastened 


MISTAKES  ON  ALL  SIDES.  117 

from  the  room  as  she  spoke,  leaving  Sir  Marmaduke  and 
Terry  silently  confronting  each  other.  The  moment  of  his 
daughter's  departure,  Sir  Marmaduke  felt  relieved  from  the 
interference  her  good  opinion  of  Terry  suggested,  and,  at 
once  altering  his  whole  demeanor,  he  walked  close  up  to 
him,   and  said,  — 

"I  shall  but  give  you  one  chance  more,  sir.  Answer  my 
question  now,  or  never." 

"Never,  then!  "  rejoined  Terry,  in  a  tone  of  open 
defiance. 

The  words,  and  the  look  by  which  they  were  accom- 
panied, overcame  the  old  man's  temper  in  a  moment,  and  he 
said,  — 

"I  thought  as  much.  I  guessed  how  deeply  gratitude 
had  sunk  in  such  a  heart.  Away!  Let  me  see  you  no 
more ! " 

The  boy  turned  his  eyes  from  the  speaker  till  they  fell 
upon  his  own  seared  and  burned  limb,  and  the  hand  swathed 
in  its  rude  bandage.  That  mute  appeal  was  all  he  made, 
and  then  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  The  old  man  turned 
away  to  hide  his  own  emotions,  and  when  he  looked  round, 
Terry  was  gone.  The  hall-door  lay  open.  He  had  passed 
out  and  gained  the  lawn,  —  no  sight  of  him  could  be 
seen. 

"I  know  it,  father,  I  know  it  all  now!  "  said  Sybella,  as 
she  came  running  up  the  slope  from  the  lake. 

"It  is  too  late,  my  child;  he  has  gone  —  left  us  forever, 
I  fear,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  as  in  shame  and  sorrow  he 
rested  his  head  upon  her  shoulder. 

For  some  seconds  she  could  not  comprehend  his  words; 
and,  when  at  last  she  did  so,  she  burst  forth,  — 

"And,  oh,  father,  think  how  we  have  wronged  him!  It 
was  in  his  care  and  devotion  to  us  the  poor  fellow  incurred 
our  doubts.  His  habit  was  to  sit  beneath  the  window  each 
night,  so  long  as  lights  gleamed  within.  Till  they  were 
extinguished,  he  never  sought  his  rest.  The  boatman  tells 
me  this,  and  says  his  notion  was  that  God  watches  over 
the  dark  hours  only,  and  that  man's  precautions  were 
needed  up  to  that  time." 

With  sincere  and  heartfelt  sorrow  Sir  Marmaduke  turned 


118  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

away.  Servants  were  despatched  on  foot  and  horseback 
to  recover  the  idiot  boy,  and  persuade  him  to  return;  but 
his  path  lay  across  a  wild  and  mountain  region,  where  few 
could  follow;  and  at  nightfall  the  messengers  returned 
unsuccessful  in  their  search. 

If  there  was  real  sorrow  over  his  departure  in  the  parlor, 
the  very  opposite  feeling  pervaded  the  kitchen.  There, 
each  in  turn  exulted  in  his  share  of  what  had  occurred,  and 
took  pains  to  exaggerate  his  claims  to  gratitude  for  having 
banished  one  so  unpopular  and  unfriended. 

Alarm  at  the  attack  of  the  previous  night,  and  sorrow  for 
the  unjust  treatment  of  poor  Terry,  were  not  Sir  Marma- 
duke's  only  emotions  on  this  sad  morning.  His  messenger 
had  just  returned  from  Carrignacurra  with  very  dispiriting 
tidings  of  Herbert  O'Donoghue.  Respect  for  the  feelings 
of  the  family  under  the  circumstances  of  severe  illness  had 
induced  him  to  defer  his  intended  visit  to  a  more  suitable 
opportunity;  but  his  anxiety  for  the  youth's  recovery  was 
unceasing,  and  he  awaited  the  return  of  each  servant  sent 
to  inquire  after  him  with  the  most  painful  impatience.  In 
this  frame  of  mind  was  he  as  evening  drew  near,  and  he 
wandered  down  his  avenue  to  the  roadside  to  learn  some 
minutes  earlier  the  last  intelligence  of  the  boy.  It  was  a 
calm  and  peaceful  hour;  not  a  leaf  moved  in  the  still  air, 
and  all  in  the  glen  seemed  bathed  in  the  tranquil  influence 
of  the  mellow  sunset.  The  contrast  to  the  terrific  storm 
which  so  lately  swept  through  the  mountain  pass  was  most 
striking,  and  appealed  to  the  old  man's  heart,  as  reflecting 
back  the  image  of  human  life,  so  varying  in  its  aspect,  so 
changeful  of  good  and  evil.  He  stood  and  meditated  on 
the  passages  of  his  own  life,  whose  tenor  had,  till  now, 
been  so  equable,  but  whose  fortunes  seemed  already  to 
participate  in  the  eventful  fate  of  a  distracted  country. 
He  regretted,  deeply  regretted,  that  he  had  ever  come  to 
Ireland.  He  began  to  learn  how  little  power  there  is  to 
guide  the  helm  of  human  fortune  when  once  engaged  in  the 
stormy  current,  and  he  saw  himself  already  the  sport  of  a 
destiny  he  had  never  anticipated. 

If  he  was  puzzled  at  the  aspect  of  a  peasantry,  highly 
gifted  with  intelligence,  yet  barbarously  ignorant,  —  active 


MISTAKES   ON  ALL   SIDES.  119 

and  energetic,  yet  indolent  and  fatalist,  —  a  few  hints  he 
had  gathered  of  his  neighbor,  the  O'Donoghue,  amazed 
him  still  more;  and  by  no  effort  of  his  imagination  could 
he  conceive  the  alliance  between  family  pride  and  poverty 

—  between  the  reverence  for  ancestry  and  an  utter  indiffer- 
ence to  the  present.  He  could  not  understand  such  an 
anomaly  as  pretension  without  wealth;  and  the  only  satis- 
factory explanation  he  could  arrive  at,  to  himself,  was,  that 
in  a  wild  and  secluded  tract,  even  so  much  superiority  as 
this  old  chieftain  possessed  attracted  towards  him  the  re- 
spect of  all  humbler  and  more  lowly  than  himself,  and  even 
made  his  rude  state  seem  affluence  and  power.  If  in  his 
advances  to  the  O'Donoghue  he  had  observed  all  the  forms 
of  a  measured  respect,  it  was  because  he  felt  so  deeply 
his  debtor  for  a  service,  that  he  would  omit  nothing  in 
the  repayment.  His  gratitude  was  sincere  and  heartfelt, 
and  would  not  admit  any  obstacle  in  the  way  of  acknowl- 
edging it. 

Reflecting  thus,  he  was  suddenly  startled  by  the  sound 
of  wheels  coming  up  the  glen ;  he  listened,  and  now  heard 
the  low  trot  of  a  horse,  and  the  admonitions  of  a  man's 
voice,  delivered  in  tones  of  anger  and  impatience.  The 
moment  after,  an  old-fashioned  gig,  drawn  by  a  small, 
miserable  pony,  appeared,  from  which  a  man  had  dis- 
mounted to  ascend  the  hill. 

"A  fine  evening,  sir,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  as  the  stran- 
ger, whose  dress  bespoke  one  of  the  rank  of  gentleman, 
drew  near. 

The  other  stopped  suddenly,  and  surveyed  the  baronet 
without  speaking;  then,  throwing  down  the  collar  of  his 
greatcoat,  which  he  wore  high  round  his  face,  he  made  a 
respectful  salute  and  said,  — 

"A  lovely  evening,  sir.  I  have  the  honor  to  see  Sir 
Marmaduke  Travers,  I  believe?     May  I  introduce  myself? 

—  Doctor  Roach,   of  Killarney." 

"Ah,  indeed!  Then  you  are  probably  come  from  Mr. 
O'Donoghue's  house?  Is  the  young  gentleman  better  this 
evening  ?  " 

Roach  shook  his  head  dubiousl}',  but  made  no  reply. 

"I  hope,  sir,  you  don't  apprehend  danger  to  his  life?" 


120  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

asked  Sir  Marmaduke,  with  an  effort  to  appear  calm  as  he 
spoke. 

"Indeed  I  do,  then,"  said  Roach,  firmly;  "the  mischief's 
done  already." 

"He's  not  dead?"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  almost  breath- 
less in  his  terror. 

"Not  dead;  but  the  same  as  dead.  Effusion  will  carry 
him  off  some  time  to-morrow." 

"  And  can  you  leave  him  in  this  state  ?  Is  there  nothing 
to  be  done?  Nothing  you  could  suggest?"  cried  the  old 
man,  scarcely  able  to  repress  his  indignant  feeling  at  the 
heartless  manner  of  the  doctor. 

"There  's  many  a  thing  one  might  try,"  said  Roach,  not 
noticing  the  temper  of  the  question,  "for  the  boy  is  young; 
but  for  the  sake  of  a  chance,  how  am  I  to  stay  away  from 
my  practice  and  my  other  patients?  And,  indeed,  slight  a 
prospect  as  he  has  of  recovery,  my  own  of  a  fee  is  slighter 
still.  I  think  I  've  all  the  corn  in  Egypt  in  my  pocket  this 
minute,"  said  he,  clapping  his  hand  on  his  purse,  — "one 
of  the  late  king's  guineas,  wherever  they  had  it  lying  by 
till  now." 

"I  am  overjoyed  to  have  met  you,  sir,"  said  Sir  Marma- 
duke, hastily,  and  by  a  great  exertion  concealing  the  dis- 
gust this  speech  suggested.  "I  wish  for  an  opinion  about 
my  daughter's  health,  —  a  cold,  I  fancy;  but  to-morrow 
will  do. better.  Could  you  return  to  Mr.  O'Donoghue's 
to-night?  I  have  not  a  bed  to  offer  you  here.  This 
arrangement  may  serve  both  parties,  as  I  fervently  hope 
something  may  3^et  be  done  for  the  youth." 

"I  '11  visit  Miss  Travers  in  the  morning,  with  pleasure." 

"Don't  leave  him,  sir,  I  entreat  you,  till  I  send  over;  it 
will  be  quite  time  enough  when  you  hear  from  me.  Let 
the  youth  be .  your  first  care.  Doctor.  In  the  mean  while, 
accept  this  slight  retainer,  for  I  beg  you  to  consider  your 
time  as  given  to  me  now ; "  and  with  that  he  pressed  several 
guineas  into  the  willing  palm  of  the  doctor. 

As  Roach  surveyed  the  shining  gold,  his  quick  cunning 
divined  the  old  baronet's  intentions,  and  with  a  readiness 
long  habit  had  perfected,   he  said,  — 

"The  case  of   danger  before    all  others,   any  day.     I'll 


^     THE  \ 

UNIVERSITY    1 
^C>^^,PQP^^'PAKES   ON  ALL  SIDES.  121 

turn  about  at  once,  and  see  what  can  be  done  for  the 
lad." 

Sir  Marmaduke  leaned  towards  him,  and  said  some 
words  hastily,    in  a  low,   whispering  voice. 

"Never  fear  —  never  fear,  Sir  Marmaduke,"  was  the 
reply,  as  he  mounted  to  the  seat  of  his  vehicle,  and  turned 
the  pony's  head  once  more  down  the  glen. 

"Lose  no  time,  I  beseech  you,"  cried  the  old  man,  wav- 
ing his  hand  in  token  of  adieu;  nor  was  the  direction  un- 
heeded; for,  using  his  whip  with  redoubled  energy,  the 
doctor  sped  along  the  road  at  a  canter  which  threatened 
annihilation  to  the  frail  vehicle  at  every  bound  of  the 
animal. 

"Five  hundred!  "  muttered  Sir  Marmaduke  to  himself,  as 
he  looked  after  him.  "I  'd  give  half  my  fortune  to  see  him 
safe  through  it." 

Meanwhile  Roach  proceeded  on  his  way,  speculating  on 
all  the  gain  this  fortunate  meeting  would  bring  to  him, 
and  then  meditating  what  reasons  he  should  allege  to  the 
O'Donoghue  for  his  speedy  return. 

"I'll  tell  him  a  lucky  thought  struck  me  in  the  glen," 
muttered  he ;  "  or  what  if  I  said  I  forgot  something,  —  a 
pocket-book,  or  case  of  instruments,  —  anything  will  do ;  " 
and,  with  this  comfortable  reflection,  he  lu'ged  his  beast 
onward. 

The  night  was  falling  as  he  once  more  ascended  the  steep 
and  narrow  causeway  which  led  to  the  old  keep;  and  here, 
now,  Kerry  O'Leary  was  closing  the  heavy  but  time-worn 
gate,  and  fastening  it  with  many  a  bolt  and  bar,  as  though 
aught  within  could  merit  so  much  precaution.  The  sound 
of  wheels  seemed  suddenly  to  have  caught  the  huntsman's 
ear;  for  he  hastily  shut  down  the  massive  hasp  that  secured 
the  bar  of  the  gate,  and  as  quickly  opened  a  little  latched 
window,  which,  barred  with  iron,  resembled  the  grated 
aperture  of  a  convent  door. 

"You  're  late  this  time,  anyhow,"  cried  Kerry.  "Tramp 
back  again,  friend,  the  way  you  came;  and  be  thankful 
it 's  myself  seen  you,  for,  by  the  blessed  Father,  if  it  was 
Master  Mark  was  here,  you  'd  carry  away  more  lead  in  your 
skirts  than  you'd  like." 


122  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"What,  Kerry?  —  what 's  that  you  're  saying?  "  said  the 
astonished  doctor;  "don't  you  know  me,  man?" 

"Kerry's  my  name,  sure  enough;  but,  artful  as  you  are, 
you  '11  just  keep  the  other  side  of  the  door.  Be  off  now,  in 
God's  name.  'T  is  a  fair  warning  I  give  you;  and,  faix, 
if  you  won't  listen  to  rayson,  you  might  hear  worse; "  and, 
as  he  spoke,  that  ominous  sound,  the  click  of  a  gun-cock, 
was  heard,  and  the  muzzle  of  a  carbine  peeped  between  the 
iron  bars. 

"Tear  and  ounds!  ye  scoundrel!  you  're  not  going  to  fire 
a  bullet  at  me?  " 

" 'T  is  slugs  they  are,"  was  the  reply,  as  Kerry  adjusted 
the  piece,  and  seemed  to  take  as  good  an  aim  as  the  dark- 
ness permitted;  "divila  more  nor  slugs,  as  you'll  know 
soon.  I  '11  count  three,  now,  and  may  I  never  wear  boots 
if  I  don't  blaze  if  you  're  not  gone  before  it 's  over.  Here  's 
one ! "   shouted  he,  in  a  louder  key. 

"The  saints  protect  me,  but  I  '11  be  murdered,"  muttered 
old  Roach,  blessing  himself,  but  unable,  from  terror,  to 
speak  aloud,  or  stir  from  the  spot. 

"Here  's  two!  "  cried  Kerry,  still  louder. 

"I'm  going!  —  I'm  going!  give  me  time  to  leave  this 
blasted  place ;  bad  luck  to  the  day  and  the  hour  I  ever 
saw  it." 

"It's  too  late,"  shouted  Kerry.  "Here's  three!"  and, 
as  he  spoke,  bang  went  the  piece,  and  a  shower  of  slugs 
and  duck-shot  came  peppering  over  the  head  and  counter  of 
the  old  pony;  for,  in  his  fright.  Roach  had  fallen  on  his 
knees  to  pray.  The  wretched  quadruped,  thus  rudely 
saluted,  gave  a  plunge  and  a  kick,  and  then  wheeled  about 
with  an  alacrity  long  forgotten,  and  scampered  down  the 
causeway  with  the  old  gig  at  his  heels,  rattling  as  if  it 
were  coming  in  pieces.  Kerry  broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter, 
and  screamed  out,  — 

"I  '11  give  you  another  yet,  begorra!  that 's  only  a  true 
copy;  but  you  '11  get  the  original  now,  you  ould  varmint!  " 

A  heavy  groan  from  the  wretched  doctor,  as  he  sank  in 
a  faint,  was  the  only  response;  for  in  his  fear  he  thought 
the  contents  of  the  piece  were  in  his  body. 

"Musha,  I  hope  he  isn't  dead,"  said  Kerry,  as  he  opened 


MISTAKES   ON  ALL  SIDES.  123 

the  wicket  cautiously,  and  peeped  out  with  a  lantern. 
*' Mister  Cassidy  —  Mister  James,  get  up  now  —  it's  only 
joking  I  was.  Holy  Joseph!  is  he  kilt?"  And  overcome 
by  a  sudden  dread  of  having  committed  murder,  Kerry 
stepped  out,  and  approached  the  motionless  figure  before 
him.  "By  all  that's  good,  I've  done  for  the  sheriff,"  said 
he,  as  he  stood  over  the  body.  "Oh!  wirra,  wirra!  who'd 
think  a  few  grains  of  shot  would  kill  him?" 

"What's  the  matter  here?  who  fired  that  shot?"  said  a 
deep  voice,  as  Mark  O'Donoghue  appeared  at  Kerry's  side, 
and  snatching  the  lantern,  held  it  down  till  the  light  fell 
upon  the  pale  features  of  the  doctor. 

"I  'm  murdered!  I  'm  murdered!  "  was  the  faint  exclama- 
tion of  old  Roach.  "Hear  me,  these  are  my  dying  words: 
Kerry  O'Leary  murdered  me." 

"Where  are  you  wounded?  where 's  the  ball?"  cried 
Mark,  tearing  open  the  coat  and  waistcoat  in  eager  anxiety. 

"I  don't  know,  I  don't  know;  it 's  inside  bleeding  I  feel." 

"  Nonsense,  man,  you  have  neither  bruise  nor  scar  about 
you;  you're  frightened,  that's  all.  Come,  Kerry,  give  a 
hand,  and  we'll  help  him  in." 

But  Kerry  had  fled;  the  idea  of  the  gallows  had  just  shot 
across  his  mind,  and  he  never  waited  for  any  further  dis- 
closures about  his  victim;  but  deep  in  the  recesses  of  a 
hayloft  he  lay  cowering  in  terror,  and  endeavoring  to  pray. 
Meanwhile  Mark  had  taken  the  half  lifeless  body  on  his 
shoulder,  and  with  the  ease  and  indifference  he  would  have 
bestowed  upon  an  inanimate  burden,  coolly  carried  him  into 
the  parlor,  and  threw  him  upon  a  sofa. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE    GLEN   AT   MIDNIGHT. 

"What  have  you  got  there,  Mark?  "  called  out  the 
O'Donoghue,  as  the  young  man  threw  the  still  insensible 
figure  of  the  doctor  upon  the  sofa. 

''Old  Roach,  of  Killarney,"  answered  Mark,  sullenly. 
"  That  confounded  fool,  Kerry,  must  have  been  listening  at 
the  door,  there,  to  what  we  were  saying,  and  took  him  for 
Cassidy,  the  sub-sheriff.  He  fired  a  charge  of  slugs  at  him, 
that's  certain;  but  I  don't  think  there's  much  mischief 
done."  As  he  spoke,  he  filled  a  goblet  with  wine,  and  with- 
out any  waste  of  ceremony,  poured  it  down  the  doctor's 
throat.  "You're  nothing  the  worse,  man,"  added  he, 
roughly;  "you  've  given  many  a  more  dangerous  dose  your- 
self, I'll  be  bound,  and  people  have  survived  it,  too." 

"I'm  better  now,"  said  Roach,  in  a  faint  voice, — "I 
feel  something  better.  But,  may  I  never  leave  this  spot  if 
I  don't  prosecute  that  scoundrel  O'Leary.  It  was  all  malice ; 
I  can  swear  to  that." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  Roach.  Mark  says  the  fellow  mistook 
you  for  Cassidy." 

"No,  no,  — don't  tell  me  that;  he  knew  me  well,  but  I 
foresaw  it  all.  He  filled  my  pony  with  water.  I  might  as 
well  be  rolling  a  barrel  before  me,  as  try  to  drive  him  this 
morning.  The  rascal  had  a  spite  against  me  for  giving 
him  nothing;   but  he  shall  hang  for  it." 

"Come,  come.  Roach,  don't  be  angry;  it's  all  past  and 
over  now;  the  fellow  did  it  for  the  best." 

"Did  it  for  the  best!  Fired  a  loaded  blunderbuss  into  a 
fellow-creature  for  the  best!  " 

"To  be  sure  he  did,"  broke  in  Mark,  with  an  imperious 
look  and  tone.  "There's  no  harm  done,  and  you  need  not 
make  such  a  work  about  it." 


THE   GLEN  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


125 


*' Where  's  the  pony  and  the  gig,  then?"  called  out 
Roach,  suddenly  remembering  the  last  sight  he  had  of 
them. 

*'I  heard  the  old  beast  clattering  down  the  glen  as  if  he 
had  fifty  kettles  at  his  tail.  They  '11  stop  him  at  last;  and 
if  they  should  n't,  I  don't  suppose  it  matters  much.     The 


whole  yoke  was  n't  worth  a  five-pound  note  —  no,  even 
giving  the  owner  into  the  bargain,"  muttered  he,  as  he 
turned  away. 

The  indignity  of  this  speech  acted  like  a  charm  upon 
Roach.  As  if  galvanized  by  the  insult,  he  sat  bolt  upright 
on  the  sofa,  and  thrust  his  hands  down  to  the  deepest 
recesses  of  his  breeches-pockets,  his  invariable  signal  for 
close  action. 


126  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

"What,  sir,  do  you  tell  me  that  my  conveniency,  with 
the  pony,   harness,   and  all  — " 

"Have  patience,  Roach,"  interposed  the  old  man;  "Mark 
was  but  jesting.     Come  over  and  join  us  here." 

At  the  same  instant  the  door  was  flung  suddenly  wide, 
and  Sir  Archy  rushed  in,  with  a  speed  very  unlike  his 
ordinary  gait. 

"There's  a  change  for  the  better!"  cried  he,  joyfully; 
"the  boy  has  made  a  rally,  and  if  we  could  overtake  that 
d  —  d  auld  beestie,  Roach,  and  bring  him  back  again,  we 
might  save  the  lad." 

"The  d — d  auld  beestie,"  exclaimed  Roach,  as  he  sprang 
from  the  sofa,  and  stood  before  him,  "  is  very  much  honored 
by  your  flattering  mention  of  him."  Then,  turning  towards 
the  O'Donoghue,  he  added,  "Take  your  turn  out  of  me 
now,  when  you  have  me;  for,  by  the  Father  of  Physic, 
you'll  never  see  Denis  Roach  under  this  roof  again." 

The  O'Donoghue  laughed  till  his  face  streamed  with  the 
emotion,  and  he  rocked  in  his  chair  like  one  in  a  convul- 
sion. "Look,  Archy,"  cried  he  —  "see  now!  —  hear  me, 
Roach !  "  were  the  only  words  he  could  utter  between  the 
paroxysms,  while  M'Nab,  the  very  picture  of  shame  and 
confusion,  stood  overwhelmed  with  his  blunder,  and  unable 
to  say  a  word.    ' 

"Let  us  not  stand  fooling  here,"  said  Mark,  gruffly,  as 
he  took  the  doctor's  arm.  "Come  and  see  my  brother,  and 
try  what  can  be  done  for  him." 

With  an  under-growl  of  menace  and  rage,  old  Roach  suf- 
fered himself  to  be  led  away  by  the  young  man.  Sir  Archy 
following  slowly,   as  the}^  mounted  the  stairs. 

Although  alone,  the  O'Donoghue  continued  to  laugh  over 
the  scene  he  had  just  witnessed ;  nor  did  he  know  which  to 
enjoy  more,  — the  stifled  rage  of  the  doctor,  or  the  mingled 
shame  and  distress  of  M'Nab.  It  was,  indeed,  a  rare  thing 
to  obtain  such  an  occasion  for  triumph  over  Sir  Archy, 
whose  studied  observance  of  all  the  courtesies  and  proprie- 
ties of  life  formed  so  strong  a  contrast  with  his  own  care- 
less and  indifferent  habits. 

"Archy  will  never  get  over  it,  that 's  certain;  and,  begad, 
he  sha'  n't  do  so  for  want  of  a  reminder.     The  d — d  auld 


THE   GLEN   AT   MIDNIGHT.  127 

beestie ! "  and  with  the  words  came  back  his  laughter, 
which  had  not  ceased  as  Mark  re-entered  the  room.  "Well, 
lad,"  he  cried,  "have  they  made  it  up?  "What  has  Sir 
Archy  done  with  him?" 

"Herbert's  better,"  said  the  youth,  in  a  low,  deep  voice, 
and  with  a  look  that  sternly  rebuked  the  heartless  forget- 
fulness  of  his  father. 

"Ah!  better  is  he?  Well,  that  is  good  news,  Mark;  and 
Roach  thinks  he  may  recover?" 

"He  has  a  chance  now;  a  few  hours  will  decide  it. 
Roach  will  sit  up  with  him  till  four  o'clock,  and  then  I 
shall  take  the  remainder  of  the  night,  for  my  uncle  seems 
quite  worn  out  with  watching." 

"No,  Mark,  my  boy,  you  must  not  lose  your  night's 
rest;  you've  had  a  long  and  tiresome  ride  to-day." 

"I  'm  not  tired,  and  I  '11  do  it,"  replied  he,  in  the  deter- 
mined tone  of  his  self-willed  habit,  —  one  which  his  father 
had  never  sought  to  control,  from  infancy  upwards.  There 
was  a  long  pause  after  this,  which  Mark  broke,  at  length, 
by  saying,  "  So  it  is  pretty  clear  now  that  our  game  is  up ; 
the  mortgage  is  foreclosed.  Hemsworth  has  noticed  the 
Ballyvourney  tenants  not  to  pay  us  the  rents,  and  the 
ejectment  go^es  on." 

"What  of  Callaghan?"  asked  the  O'Donoghue,  in  a 
sinking  voice. 

"  Refused  —  flatly  refused  to  renew  the  bills.  If  we  give 
him  five  hundred  down,"  said  the  youth,  with  a  bitter 
laugh,  "he  says  he  'd  strain  a  point." 

"You  told  him  how  we  were  circumstanced,  Mark?  Did 
you  mention  about  Kate's  money?" 

'"No,"  said  Mark,  sternly,  as  his  brows  met  in  a  savage 
frown,  — "no,  sir,  I  never  said  a  word  of  it.  She  shall  not 
be  made  a  beggar  of  for  our  faults.  I  told  you  before,  and 
I  tell  you  now,   I'll  not  suffer  it." 

"But  hear  me,  Mark.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time. 
I'll  repay  —  " 

"Repay!"  was  the  scornful  echo  of  the  young  man,  as 
he  turned  a  w^ithering  glance  at  his  father. 

"Then  there  's  nothing  but  ruin  before  us,"  said  the 
O'Donoghue,   in  a  solemn  tone, — "nothing!" 


128  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

The  old  man's  bead  fell  forward  on  his  bosom,  and,  as 
his  hands  dropped  listlessly  down  at  either  side,  he  sat  the 
very  impersonation  of  overwhelming  affliction,  while  Mark, 
with  heavy  step  and  slow,  walked  up  and  down  the  roomy 
chamber. 

"Hemsworth's  clerk  hinted  something  about  this  old 
banker's  intention  of  building  here,"  resumed  he,  after  a 
long  interval  of  silence. 

"  Building  where  ?  —  over  at  the  Lodge  ?  " 

"No,  here,  at  Carrignacurra ;  throwing  down  this  old 
place,  I  suppose,  and  erecting  a  modern  villa  instead." 

"What! "  exclaimed  the  O'Donoghue,  with  a  look  of  fiery 
indignation,  "are  they  going  to  grub  us  out,  root  and 
branch?  Is  it  not  enough  to  banish  the  old  lords  of  the 
soil,  but  they  must  remove  their  very  landmarks  also  ?  " 

"It  is  for  that  he  's  come  here,  I  've  no  doubt,"  resumed 
Mark;  "he  only  waited  to  have  the  whole  estate  in  his  pos- 
session, which  this  term  will  give  him." 

"  I  wish  he  had  waited  a  little  longer,  —  a  year,  or,  at 
most,  two,  would  have  been  enough,"  said  the  old  man,  in 
a  voice  of  great  dejection;  then  added,  with  a  sickly  smile, 
"  you  have  little  affection  for  the  old  walls,  Mark. " 

The  youth  made  no  reply,  and  he  went  on :  "  Nor  is  it  to 
be  wondered  at.  You  never  knew  them  in  their  happy 
days ;  but  I  did,  Mark  —  ay,  that  I  did.  I  mind  the  time 
well  when  your  grandfather  was  the  head  of  this  great 
county ;  when  the  proudest  and  the  best  in  the  land  stood 
uncovered  when  he  addressed  them,  and  deemed  the  highest 
honor  they  could  receive  an  invitation  to  this  house.  In 
the  very  room  where  we  are  sitting,  I  've  seen  thirty  guests 
assembled,  whose  names  comprised  the  rank  and  station  of 
the  province ;  and  yet,  all  —  every  man  of  them  —  regarded 
him  as  their  chief,  and  he  was  so,  too,  —  the  descendant  of 
one  who  was  a  king." 

The  animated  features  of  the  young  man,  as  he  listened, 
encouraged  the  O'Donoghue,  and  he  went  on:  "Thirty- 
seven  thousand  acres  descended  to  my  grandfather,  and  even 
that  was  but  a  moiety  of  our  former  possessions." 

"  Enough  of  this,"  interrupted  Mark,  rudely.  "  It  is  but 
an  unprofitable  theme.  The  game  is  up,  father,"  added  he, 
in  a  deep,  stern  voice,  "  and  I,  for  one,  have  little  fancv  to 


THE   GLEN  AT   MIDNIGHT.  129 

wait  for  the  winner  to  claim  the  stakes.  Could  I  bat  see 
you  safely  out  of  the  scrape,  I  'd  be  many  a  mile  away  ere  a 
week  was  over." 

"You  would  not  leave  me,  boy!  "  cried  the  old  man,  as 
he  grasped  the  youth's  hands  in  his,  and  gazed  on  him  with 
streaming  eyes  —  "you  would  not  desert  your  poor  old 
father.  Oh,  no  —  no,  Mark!  this  would  not  be  like  j^ou. 
A  little  patience,  my  child,  and  death  will  save  you  that 
cruelty." 

The  young  man's  chest  heaved  and  fell  like  a  swelling 
wave ;  but  he  never  spoke,  nor  changed  a  muscle  of  his 
rigid  features. 

"  I  have  borne  all  misfortunes  well  till  now,"  continued 
the  father.  ' '  I  cared  little  on  my  own  account,  Mark ;  my 
only  sorrow  was  for  you ;  but  so  long  as  we  were  together, 
boy,  —  so  long  as  hand  in  hand  we  stood  against  the  storm, 
I  felt  that  my  courage  never  failed  me.  Stay  by  me,  then, 
Mark,  — tell  me  that  whatever  comes  you'll  never  leave  me. 
Let  it  not  be  said,  that  when  age  and  affliction  fell  upon  the 
O'Donoghue,  his  son  —  the  boy  of  his  heart  —  deserted  him. 
You  shall  command  in  everything,"  said  he,  with  an  im- 
passioned tone,  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  youth's  counte- 
nance. "  I  ask  for  nothing  but  to  be  near  you.  The  house 
—  the  property  —  all  shall  be  yours." 

"  What  house  —  what  property  —  do  you  speak  of?"  said 
Mark,  rudely.     "Are  we  not  beggars?" 

The  old  man's  head  dropped  heavily ;  he  relinquished  the 
grasp  of  his  son's  hand,  and  his  outstretched  arm  fell  power- 
less to  his  side.  "  I  was  forgetting,"  murmured  he,  in  a 
broken  voice;  "it  is  as  you  say  —  you  are  right,  Mark  — 
you  must  go." 

Few  and  simple  as  the  words  were,  the  utterance  sank 
deep  into  the  young  man's  heart;  they  seemed  the  last 
effort  of  courage  wrung  from  despair,  and  breathed  a  pathos 
he  was  unable  to  resist. 

"I'll  not  leave  you,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  scarce  louder 
than  a  whisper,  "  there  's  my  hand  upon  it ;  "  and  he  wrung 
in  his  strong  grasp  the  unresisting  fingers  of  the  old  man. 
"That's  a  promise,  father,  and  now  let  us  speak  no  more 
about  it." 


130  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

"  I  '11  get  to  my  bed,  Mark,"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  as  he 
pressed  his  hands  upon  his  throbbing  temples.  It  was  many 
a  day  since  anything  like  emotion  had  moved  him,  and  the 
conflict  of  passion  had  worn  and  exhausted  him.  "  Good 
night,  my  boy  —  my  own  boy  ;  "  and  he  fell  upon  the  youth's 
shoulder,  half  choked  with  sobs. 

As  the  O'Donoghue  slowly  ascended  the  stairs  towards  his 
bedroom,  Mark  threw  himself  upon  a  chair,  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands.  His  sorrow  was  a  deep  one.  The  resolve 
he  had  just  abandoned  had  been  for  many  a  day  the  cherished 
dream  of  his  heart  —  his  comfort  under  every  affiiction  —  his 
support  against  every  difficulty.  To  seek  his  fortune  in  some 
foreign  service,  to  win  an  honorable  name,  even  though  in 
a  strange  land,  was  the  whole  ambition  of  his  life ;  and  so 
engrossed  was  he  in  his  own  calculations  that  he  never 
deigned  a  thought  of  what  his  father  might  feel  about  it. 
The  poverty  that  eats  its  way  to  the  heart  of  families  seldom 
fails  to  loosen  the  ties  of  domestic  affection.  The  daily 
struggle,  the  hourly  conflict  with  necessity,  too  often  destroy 
the  delicate  and  trustful  sense  of  protection  that  youth  should 
feel  towards  age.  The  energies  that  should  have  expanded 
into  homely  affection  and  mutual  regard,  are  spent  in  ward- 
ing off  a  common  enemy ;  and  with  weary  minds  and  seared 
hearts  the  gentler  charities  of  life  have  few  sympathies. 
Thus  was  it  here.  Mark  mistook  his  selfishness  for  a  feeling 
of  independence ;  he  thought  indifference  to  others  meant 
confidence  in  himself  —  and  he  was  not  the  first  who  made 
the  mistake. 

Tired  with  thinking,  and  harassed  with  difficulties,  through 
which  he  could  see  no  means  of  escape,  he  threw  open  the 
window,  to  suffer  the  cool  night  au'  to  blow  upon  his  throb- 
bing temples,  and  sat  down  beside  the  casement  to  enjoy  its 
refreshing  influence.  The  candles  had  burned  down  in  the 
apartment,  and  the  fire,  now  reduced  to  a  mere  mass  of  red 
embers,  scarce  threw  a  gleam  beyond  the  broad  hearthstone. 
The  old  tower  itself  flung  a  dark  shadow  upon  the  rock, 
and  across  the  road  beneath  it,  and,  except  in  the  chamber 
of  the  sick  boy,  in  a  distant  part  of  the  building,  not  a 
light  was  to  be  seen. 

The  night  was  calm  and  starlit :  a  stillness  almost  pain- 


THE   GLEN  AT  MIDNIGHT.  131 

ful  reigned  aroiiud.  It  seemed  as  if  exhausted  nature, 
tired  with  the  work  of  storm  aud  hurricane,  had  sunk  into 
a  deep  and  wearied  sleep.  Thousands  of  bright  stars 
speckled  the  dark  sky ;  yet  the  light  they  shed  upon  the 
earth  but  dimly  distinguished  mountain  aud  valley,  save 
where  the  calm  surface  of  the  lake  gave  back  theii-  lustre 
in  a  heaven  placid  and  motionless  as  their  own.  Now 
and  then  a  bright  meteor  would  shoot  across  the  blue 
vault,  and  disappear  in  the  darkness ;  while  in  tranquil 
splendor  the  planets  shone  on,  as  though  to  say,  the  higher 
destiny  is  rather  to  display  an  eternal  brightness  than  the 
brilliancy  of  momentary  splendor,  however  glittering  its 
wide  career. 

The  young  man  gazed  upon  the  sky.  The  lessons  which, 
from  human  lips,  he  had  rejected  with  scorn  and  impatience, 
now  sank  deeply  into  his  nature  from  those  silent  monitors. 
The  stars  looked  down,  like  eyes,  into  his  very  soul,  and  he 
felt  as  if  he  could  unburden  his  whole  heart  of  its  weary 
load,  and  make  a  confidence  with  heaven. 

"  They  point  ever  downwards,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he 
watched  the  bright  streak  of  the  falling  stars,  and  moralized 
on  their  likeness  to  man's  destiny.  But,  as  he  spoke,  a  red 
line  shot  up  into  the  sky,  and  broke  into  ten  thousand  glit- 
tering spangles,  shedding  over  glen  and  mountain  a  faint 
but  beauteous  gleam,  scarce  more  lasting  than  the  meteor's 
flash.  It  was  a  rocket  sent  up  from  the  border  of  the  bay, 
and  was  quickly  answered  by  another  from  the  remote  end 
of  the  glen.  The  youth  started,  and  leaning  out  from  the 
window,  looked  down  the  valley ;  but  nothing  was  to  be 
seen  or  heard,  all  was  silent  as  before,  and  already  the 
flash  of  the  signals,  for  such  they  must  have  been  he  could 
not  doubt,  had  faded  away,  and  the  sky  shone  in  its  own 
spangled  beauty. 

"  They  are  smugglers !  "  muttered  Mark,  as  he  sank  back 
in  his  chair ;  for  in  that  wild  district  such  signals  were  em- 
ployed without  much  fear  by  those  who  either  could  trust 
the  revenue  as  accomplices,  or  dare  them  by  superior  num- 
bers. More  than  once  it  had  occurred  to  him  to  join  this 
lawless  band,  and  many  a  pressing  invitation  had  he  re- 
ceived  from   the   leaders   to   do   so ;  but   still   the   youth's 


132  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

ambition,  save  in  his  darkest  hours,  took  a  higher  and  a 
nobler  range.  The  danger  of  the  career  was  its  only  fas- 
cination to  him.  Now,  however,  all  these  thoughts  were 
changed.  He  had  given  a  solemn  pledge  to  his  father  never 
to  leave  him ;  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  half  apathy  he 
sat  pondering  over  what  cutter  it  might  be  that  had  an- 
chored, or  whose  party  were  then  preparing  to  land  theu- 
cargo. 

"  Ambrose  Denner,  belike,"  muttered  he  to  himself,  "  the 
Flemish  fellow  from  the  Scheldt,  —  a  greedy  old  scoundrel 
too ;  he  refused  a  passage  to  a  poor  wretch  that  broke  the 
jail  in  Limerick,  because  he  could  not  pay  for  it.  I  wish 
the  people  here  may  remember  it  to  him.  Maybe  it's  Hans 
*  der  Teufel,'  though,  as  they  call  him  ;  or  Flahault,  —  he 's 
the  best  of  them,  if  there  be  a  difference.  I  've  half  a  mind 
to  go  down  the  glen  and  see ;  "  and  while  he  hesitated,  a 
low,  monotonous  sound  of  feet,  as  if  marching,  struck  on 
his  ear ;  and  as  he  listened,  he  heard  the  distant  tramp  of 
men,  moving  in  what  seemed  a  great  number.  These  could 
not  be  the  smugglers,  he  well  knew;  reckless  and  fearless 
as  they  were,  they  never  came  in  such  large  bodies  as  these 
noises  portended. 

There  is  something  solemn  in  the  sound  of  marching 
heard  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  and  so  Mark  felt  it,  as 
with  cautious  breathing  he  leaned  upon  the  window  and 
bent  his  ear  to  listen.  Nearer  and  nearer  they  came,  till 
at  last  the  footfalls  beat  loudly  on  the  dull  ground,  as  in 
measured  tread  they  stepped.  At  first,  a  dark  moving 
mass,  that  seemed  to  fill  the  narrow  road,  was  all  he  could 
discern ;  but  as  this  came  closer,  he  could  perceive  that  they 
marched  in  companies  or  divisions,  each  headed  by  its 
leader,  who,  from  time  to  time,  stepped  from  his  place, 
and  observed  their  order  and  precision.  They  were  all 
country  people ;  their  dress,  as  well  as  he  could  discern, 
the  common  costume  of  every  day,  undistinguished  by  any 
military  emblem.  Nor  did  they  carr}^  arms ;  the  captains 
alone  wore  a  kind  of  white  scarf  over  the  shoulder,  which 
could  be  distinctly  seen  even  by  the  imperfect  light.  They 
alone  carried  swords,  with  which  they  checked  the  move- 
ments from  time  to  time.     Not  a  word  was  uttered  in  the 


THE   GLEN  AT  MIDNIGHT.  133 

dense  ranks,  not  a  murmur  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
solemn  scene,  as  that  host  poured  on,  the  one  command, 
"Right  shoulders  forward  —  wheel!"  being  given  at  in- 
tervals, as  the  parties  defiled  beneath  the  rock,  at  which 
place  the  road  made  an  abrupt  turning. 

So  strange  the  spectacle,  so  different  from  all  he  had 
ever  witnessed  or  heard  of,  the  youth  more  than  once  half 
doubted  lest  a  wearied  and  fevered  brain  had  not  called  up 
the  illusion ;  but  as  he  continued  to  gaze  on  the  moving 
multitude,  he  was  assured  of  its  reality;  and  now  was  he 
harassed  by  conjectures  what  it  all  should  mean.  For 
nearly  an  hour  —  to  him  it  seemed  many  such  —  the  human 
tide  flowed  on,  till  at  length  the  sounds  grew  fainter,  and 
the  last  party  moved  by,  followed,  at  a  little  distance,  by 
two  figures  on  horseback.  Their  long  cloaks  concealed  the 
wearers  completely  from  his  view,  but  he  could  distinctly 
mark  the  steel  scabbards  of  swords,  and  hear  their  heavy 
clank  against  the  horses'  flanks. 

Suffering  their  party  to  proceed,  the  horsemen  halted  for 
a  few  seconds  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  and  as  they  reined  in, 
one  called  out  to  the  other,  in  a  voice  every  syllable  of  which 
fell  distinctly  on  Mark's  ears,  — 

"That's  the  place,  Godfrey;  and  even  by  this  light  you 
can  judge  of  its  strength." 

"But  why  is  he  not  with  us?"  said  the  other,  hastily. 
"  Has  he  not  an  inheritance  to  win  back,  —  a  confiscation  to 
wipe  out?  " 

"  True  enough,"  said  the  first  speaker;  "  but  eighty 
winters  do  not  improve  a  man's  nerve  for  a  hazardous 
v3xploit.  He  has  a  son,  though,  and,  as  I  hear,  a  bold 
fellow." 

"  Look  to  him,  Harvey;  it  is  of  moment  that  we  should 
have  one  so  near  the  bay.  See  to  this  quickly.  If  he  be 
like  what  you  say,  and  desires  a  command  — "  The  rest 
Avas  lost  in  the  sound  of  their  retreating  hoofs,  for  already 
the  party  resumed  their  journey,  and  were  in  a  few  minutes 
hidden  from  his  view. 

AVith  many  a  conflicting  doubt,  and  many  a  conjecture, 
each  wilder  than  the  other,  Mark  pondered  over  what  he 
had  seen,  nor  noted  the  time  as  it  slipped  past,  till  the  gray 


134  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

tint  of  day-dawn  warned  him  of  the  hour.  The  rumbling 
sounds  of  a  country  cart  just  then  attracted  his  attention, 
and  he  beheld  a  countryman,  with  a  little  load  of  turf,  on 
his  way  to  the  market  at  Killarney.  Seeing  that  the  man 
must  have  met  the  procession,  he  called  aloud,  — 

*'  I  say,  my  good  man,  where  were  they  all  marching 
to-night,  those  fellows  ?  " 

"  What  fellows,  your  honor?  "  said  the  man,  as  he  touched 
his  hat  obsequiously. 

"That  great  crowd  of  people,  —  you  could  not  help  meet- 
ing them;  there  was  no  other  road  they  could  take." 

"  Sorra  man,  woman,  or  child  I  seen,  your  honor,  since 
I  left  home,  and  that 's  eight  miles  from  this."  And  so 
saying  he  followed  his  journey,  leaving  Mark  in  greater 
bewilderment  than  before. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

*'the  guardsman." 

Leaving  for  a  brief  season  Glenflesk  and  its  inhabitants, 
we  shall  ask  of  our  readers  to  accompany  us  to  London,  to 
a  scene  somewhat  different  from  that  of  our  last  chapter. 

In  a  handsomely  furnished  drawing-room  in  St.  James's 
Street,  where  the  appliances  of  ease  and  luxury  were  blended 
with  the  evidence  of  those  tastes  so  popular  among  young 
men  of  fashion  of  the  period,  sat,  or  rather  lay,  in  a  deep- 
cushioned  arm-chair,  a  young  officer,  who,  even  in  the  dis- 
habille of  the  morning,  and  with  the  evident  traces  of  fatigue 
and  dissipation  on  his  brow,  was  strikingly  handsome. 
Though  not  more  than  three  or  four-and-twenty,  the  habits 
of  his  life,  and  the  assured  features  of  his  character,  made 
him  appear  several  years  older.  In  figure  he  was  tall  and 
well  proportioned,  while  his  countenance  bore  those  linea- 
ments which  are  pre-eminently  distinguished  as  Saxon,  — 
massive  but  well-chiselled  features,  the  harmony  of  whose 
expression  is  even  more  striking  than  their  individual  ex- 
cellence ;  a  look  of  frank  daring,  which  many  were  prone  to 
attribute  to  superciliousness,  was  the  most  marked  trait  in 
his  face ;  nor  was  the  impression  lessened  by  a  certain 
hauteur  which  military  men  of  the  time  assumed,  and  which 
he  in  particular  somewhat  prided  himself  on. 

The  gifts  of  fortune  and  the  graces  of  person  will  often 
seem  to  invest  their  possessor  with  attributes  of  insolence 
and  overbearing,  which  are,  in  reality,  nothing  more  than 
the  unbridled  buoyancy  of  youth  and  power  revelling  in  its 
own  exercise. 

We  have  no  fancy  to  practise  mystery  with  our  reader, 
and  shall  at  once  introduce  him  to  Frederick  Travers,  Sir 
Marmaduke's  only  son,  and  captain  in  the  First  Regiment 


136  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

of  Guards.  Wealth  and  good  looks  were  about  as  popular 
fifty  years  ago  as  they  are  in  the  year  we  write  in,  and 
Frederick  Travers  was  as  universal  a  favorite  in  the  circles 
he  frequented  as  any  man  of  his  day.  Courtly  manners, 
spirits  nothing  could  depress,  a  courage  nothing  could  daunt, 
expensive  tastes,  gratified  as  rapidly  as  they  w^ere  conceived, 
were  all  accessories  which  won  their  way  among  his  acquain- 
tances, and  made  them  proud  of  his  intimacy  and  boastful 
of  his  friendship.  That  circumstances  like  these  should 
have  rendered  a  young  man  self-willed  and  imperious,  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at,  and  such  was  he  in  reality,  —  less,  how- 
ever, from  the  unlimited  license  of  his  position,  than  from  an 
hereditary  feature  which  distinguished  every  member  of  his 
family,  and  made  them  as  intolerant  of  restraint  as  they 
were  wayward  in  purpose.  The  motto  of  their  house  was 
the  index  of  their  character,  and  in  every  act  and  thought 
they  seemed  under  the  influence  of  their  emblazoned  inscrip- 
tion, "^  tort  et  a  travers.'' 

Over,  his  father,  Frederick  Travers  exercised  an  unlimited 
influence ;  from  his  boyhood  upward  he  had  never  met  a 
contradiction,  and  the  natural  goodness  of  his  temper,  and 
the  affectionate  turn  of  his  disposition,  made  the  old  man 
believe  in  the  excellence  of  a  system  whose  success  lay  less 
in  its  principle  than  in  the  virtue  of  him  on  whom  it  was 
practised. 

Sir  Marmaduke  felt  proud  of  his  son's  career  in  the 
world,  and  enjoyed  to  the  utmost  all  the  flattery  which  the 
young  man's  acceptance  in  society  conferred  ;  he  was  proud 
of  him  almost  as  much  as  he  was  fond  of  him,  and  a  letter 
from  Frederick  had  always  the  effect  of  restoring  his  spirits, 
no  matter  how  deep  their  depression  the  moment  before. 

The  youth  returned  his  father's  affection  with  his  whole 
heart ;  he  knew  and  valued  all  the  high  and  generous  prin- 
ciples of  his  nature ;  he  estimated  with  an  honest  pride  those 
gifts  Avhich  had  won  Sir  Marmaduke  the  esteem  and  respect 
of  his  fellow-citizens ;  but  yet  he  thought  he  could  trace  cer- 
tain weaknesses  of  character  from  which  his  own  more 
enlarged  sphere  of  life  had  freed  him. 

Fashionable  associates,  the  society  of  men  of  wit  and 
pleasure,  seem  often  to  suggest  more  acute  and  subtle  views 


"THE   GUARDSMAN."  137 

of  life  than  are  to  be  obtained  in  less  exalted  and  distin- 
guished company ;  the  smart  sayings  and  witty  epigrams 
which  are  current  among  clever  men  appear  to  be  so  many 
texts  in  the  wisdom  of  the  world.  Nothing  is  more  common 
than  this  mistake ;  nothing  more  frequent  than  to  find  that 
intercourse  with  such  people  diffuses  few,  if  any,  of  their 
distinguishing  merits  among  their  less-gifted  associates,  who 
rarely  learn  anything  from  the  intercourse  but  a  hearty 
contempt  for  all  who  are  debarred  from  it.  Frederick  was 
of  this  school ;  the  set  he  moved  in  was  his  religion,  —  their 
phrases,  their  prejudices,  their  passions,  he  regarded  as 
standards  for  all  imitation.  It  is  not  surprising,  then,  it 
he  conceived  many  of  his  father's  notions  obsolete  and  an- 
tiquated, and  had  they  not  been  his,  he  would  have  treated 
them  as  ridiculous. 

This  somewhat  tedious  explanation  of  a  character  with 
whom  we  have  not  any  very  lengthened  business  hereafter, 
demands  some  apology  from  us ;  still,  without  it,  we  should 
be  unable  to  explain  to  our  reader  the  reason  of  those  events 
to  whose  narrative  we  are  hastening. 

On  the  table,  among  the  materials  of  a  yet  untasted  break- 
fast, lay  an  open  letter,  which,  from  time  to  time,  the  young 
man  read,  and  as  often  threw  from  him,  with  expressions 
of  impatience  and  anger.  A  night  of  more  than  ordinary 
dissipation  had  made  him  irritable,  and  the  contents  of  the 
epistle  did  not  seem  of  a  character  to  calm  him. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  he  at  last,  as  he  crushed  the  letter  in 
his  hand.  "  I  knew  it  well ;  my  poor  father  is  unfit  to  cope 
with  those  savages ;  what  could  ever  have  persuaded  him  to 
venture  among  them  I  know  not ;  the  few  hundreds  a  year 
the  whole  estate  produces  are  not  worth  as  many  weeks* 
annoyance.  Hemsworth  knows  them  well ;  he  is  the  only 
man  fit  to  deal  with  them.  Heigho !  "  said  he,  with  a  sigh, 
"there's  nothing  for  it,  I  suppose,  but  to  bring  them  back 
again  as  soon  as  may  be ;  and  this  confounded  accident 
Hemsworth  has  met  with  in  the  Highlands  will  lay  him  on 
his  back  these  five  weeks, — I  must  e'en  go  myself.  Yet 
nothing  was  ever  more  ill-timed  :  the  Queen's  fete  at  Frog- 
more,  fixed  for  Wednesday ;  there  's  the  tennis  match  on 
Friday ;   and  Saturday,  the  first  day  of  the  stag-hounds.     It 


lo8  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

is  too  bad.  Hems  worth  is  greatly  to  blame ;  he  should 
have  been  candid  about  these  people,  and  not  have  made 
his  Pandemonium  an  Arcadia.  My  father  is  also  to  blame  ; 
he  might  have  asked  my  advice  about  this  trip ;  and  Sy- 
bella,  too,  why  did  n't  she  write  ?  She  above  all  should  have 
warned  me  about  the  folly."  And  thus  did  he  accuse  in  turn 
all  the  parties  concerned  in  a  calamity,  which,  after  all,  he 
saw  chiefly  reflected  in  the  inconvenience  it  caused  himself. 

Now,  assuredly,  Hemsworth  requires  some  vindication  at 
our  hands.  It  had  never  entered  into  that  worth}^  man's  most 
imaginative  conceptions  to  believe  a  visit  from  Sir  Marma- 
duke  to  his  Irish  property  within  the  reach  of  possibility ; 
for  although,  as  we  have  already  said,  he  was  in  the  con- 
stant habit  of  entreating  Sir  Marmaduke  to  bestow  this 
mark  of  condescension  on  his  Irish  tenants,  he  ever  con- 
trived to  accompany  the  recommendation  with  certain  cas- 
ual hints  about  the  habits  and  customs  of  the  natives,  as 
might  well  be  supposed  sufficient  to  deter  a  more  adventur- 
ous traveller  than  the  old  baronet ;  and  while  he  pressed 
him  to  come  and  see  for  himself,  he  at  the  same  time  plied 
him  with  newspapers  and  journals  whose  columns  were 
crammed  with  the  fertile  theme  of  outrage ;  the  editorial 
comments  on  which  often  indicated  a  barbarism  even  deeper 
than  the  offence  they  affected  to  deplore.  The  accident 
which  ultimately  led  to  Sir  Marmaduke's  hurried  journey 
was  a  casualty  which  Hemsworth  had  overlooked,  and  when 
he  heard  that  the  family  were  actually  domesticated  at  the 
Lodge,  his  regrets  were  indeed  great.  It  was  only  on  the 
day  before  the  intelligence  reached  him  —  for  the  letter  had 
followed  him  from  place  to  place  for  a  fortnight  —  that  he 
had  the  misfortune  to  break  his  leg  by  a  fall  from  a  cliff 
in  deer-shooting.  Whatever  the  urgency  of  the  measure,  he 
was  totally  incapable  of  undertaking  a  journey  to  Ireland, 
whither,  under  other  circumstances,  he  would  have  hastened 
with  all  speed.  Hemsworth's  correspondent,  of  whom  we 
shall  have  occasion  to  speak  more  hereafter,  was  the  sub- 
agent  of  the  estate,  —  a  creature  of  his  own,  in  every  sense, 
and  far  more  in  his  interest  than  in  that  of  his  principal. 
He  told  him,  in  forcible  terms,  how  Sir  Marmaduke  had 
xjommenced  his  work  of  Irish  reformation ;    that,  alreadj^ 


"THE   GUARDSMAN." 

both  the  baronet  and  his  daughter  had  undertaken  the  tc 
of  improvement  among  the  tenantry ;  that  rents  were  toi 
lowered,  school-houses  erected,  medical  aid  provided  loi 
the  sick  and  suffering,  more  comfortable  dwellings  built, 
more  liberal  wages  allowed,  he  narrated  how  rapidly  the 
people,  at  first  suspicious  and  distrustful,  were  learning  to 
feel  confidence  in  their  benefactor,  and  anxious  to  avail 
themselves  of  his  benevolence ;  but  more  than  all,  he  dwelt 
upon  the  conviction,  which  every  hour  gained  ground  among 
them,  that  Hems  worth  had  misrepresented  the  landlord,  and 
that,  so  far  from  being  himself  the  instrument  of,  he  bad 
been  the  obstacle  to,  their  welfare  and  happiness.  The 
letter  concluded  with  a  pressing  entreaty  for  his  speedy 
return  to  the  Lodge,  as,  should  he  be  longer  absent,  the 
mischief  would  become  past  remedy. 

Never  did  agent  receive  an  epistle  more  alarming ;  he 
saw  the  game,  for  which  he  had  been  playing  half  a  life- 
time, slip  from  him  at  the  very  moment  of  winning.  For 
above  twenty  years  his  heart  was  set  upon  becoming  the 
owner  of  the  estate ;  all  his  plans,  his  plots,  his  machina- 
tions, had  no  other  end  or  object.  From  the  deepest  stroke 
of  his  policy,  to  the  most  trivial  act  of  his  power,  he  had 
held  this  in  view.  By  his  artful  management  a  veil  was 
drawn  between  the  landlord  and  the  people  which  no  acute- 
ness  on  either  side  could  penetrate.  The  very  acts  in- 
tended as  benefits  by  the  owner  of  the  soil  passed  through 
such  a  medium  that  they  diverged  from  their  destined  direc- 
tion, and  fell  less  as  blessings  than  inflictions.  The  land- 
lord was  taught  to  regard  the  tenant  as  incurably  sunk  in 
barbarism,  ignorance,  and  superstition.  The  tenant  to  sup- 
pose the  landlord  a  cruel,  unfeeling  taskmaster,  with  no 
care  but  for  his  rent ;  neither  sympathy  for  their  sufferings, 
nor  sorrow  for  their  calamities.  Hemsworth  played  his 
game  like  a  master ;  for  while  obtaining  the  smallest  amount 
of  rental  for  his  chief,  he  exacted  the  most  onerous  and 
impoverishing  terms  from  the  people.  Thus  diminishing 
the  apparent  value  of  the  property  he  hoped  one  day  to 
be  able  to  purchase,  and  at  the  same  time  preparing  it  for 
becoming  a  lucrative  and  valuable  possession ;  for  although 
the   rents   were   nominally   low,    the   amount   of   fees    and 


140  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

*'  duty-labor  "  were  enormous.  There  was  scarcely  a  man 
upon  the  property  whose  rent  was  paid  to  the  da}^  and  hour ; 
and  for  the  favor  of  some  brief  delay,  certain  services  were 
exacted  which  virtually  reduced  the  tenants  to  a  vassalage 
the  most  miserable  and  degrading. 

If,  then,  the  eye  ranged  over  a  district  of  poverty-struck 
and  starving  peasantry,  with  wretched  hovels,  naked  chil- 
dren, and  rude,  unprofitable  tillage,  let  the  glance  but  turn 
to  the  farm  around  the  Lodge,  and  there  the  trim  fences,  the 
well-weeded  corn,  and  the  nicely  cultivated  fields,  were  an 
evidence  of  what  well-directed  labor  could  effect ;  and  the 
astounding  lesson  seemed  to  say:  "Here  is  an  object  for 
imitation.  Look  at  yonder  wheat ;  see  that  clover,  and  the 
meadow  beyond  it.  They  could  all  do  likewise.  Their  land 
is  the  same,  the  climate  the  same,  the  rent  the  same  ;  but  yet 
ignorance  and  obstinacy  are  incurable.  They  will  not  be 
taught,  —  prefer  theu'  own  barbarous  ways  to  newer  and 
better  methods ;  in  fact,  are  beyond  the  lessons  of  either 
precept  or  example." 

Yet  what  was  the  real  cause?  To  till  that  model-farm,  to 
make  these  fields  the  perfection  you  see  them,  families  were 
starving,  age  left  to  totter  to  the  grave  uncared-for,  man- 
hood pining  in  want  and  misery,  and  infancy  to  dawn  upon 
suffering  to  last  a  life  long.  Duty-labor  calls  the  poor  man 
from  the  humble  care  of  his  own  farm  to  come,  with  his 
whole  house,  and  toil  upon  the  rich  man's  fields,  the  requital 
for  which  is  some  poor  grace  of  a  week's  or  a  month's  for- 
bearance ere  he  be  called  on  for  that  rent  these  exactions  are 
preventing  him  from  earning.  Duty-labor  summons  him 
from  his  own  profitless  ground  to  behold  the  fruits  his  exer- 
tions are  raising  for  another's  enjoyment,  and  of  which  he 
must  never  taste.  Duty-labor  culls  the  days  of  fair  sky  and 
sunshine,  and  leaves  him  the  gloomy  hours  of  winter,  when, 
with  darkness  without  and  despair  within,  he  may  brood,  as 
he  digs,  over  the  disproportioned  fortunes  of  his  tyrant  and 
himself.  Duty-labor  is  the  type  of  a  slaver}^  that  hardens 
the  heart,  by  extinguishing  all  hope,  and  uprooting  every 
feeling  of  self-confidence  and  reliance,  till,  in  abject  and 
degraded  misery,  the  wretched  man  grows  reckless  of  Ma 
life,  while  his  vengeance  yearns  for  that  of  his  taskmaster. 


"THE   GUARDSMAN."  141 

Nor  does  the  system  end  here.  The  agent  must  be  con- 
ciliated by  presents  of  various  kinds :  the  humble  pittance 
wrung  from  misery  and  hoarded  up  by  industry  must  be 
offered  to  him,  as  the  means  of  obtaining  some  poor  and 
petty  favor,  —  most  frequently  one  the  rightful  due  of  the 
asker.  A  tyranny  like  this  spreads  its  baneful  influence  far 
beyond  the  afilictions  of  mere  poverty,  —  it  breaks  down  the 
spirit,  it  demoralizes  the  heart  of  a  people ;  for  where  was 
blackmail  ever  extorted  that  it  did  not  engender  cruelty  on 
the  one  hand,  and  abject  slavery  on  the  other? 

So  far  from  regarding  those  placed  above  them  in  rank 
and  station  as  their  natural  friends  and  protectors,  the 
peasantry  felt  the  great  man  as  their  oppressor.  They  knew 
him  not  as  their  comforter  in  sickness,  their  help  in  time  of 
trouble,  —  they  only  saw  in  him  the  rigid  exactor  of  his  rent, 
the  merciless  taskmaster  who  cared  not  for  time  or  season, 
save  those  that  brought  round  the  period  of  repayment ;  and 
as  year  by  year  poverty  and  misery  ate  deeper  into  their 
natures,  and  hope  died  out,  fearful  thoughts  of  retribution 
flashed  upon  minds  on  which  no  prospect  of  better  days 
shone ;  and,  in  the  gloomy  desolation  of  their  dark  hours, 
they  wished  and  prayed  for  any  change,  come  in  what  shape, 
and  surrounded  by  what  danger  it  might,  if  only  this  bond- 
age should  cease. 

Men  spoke  of  their  light-heartedness^  their  gayety  of 
temper,  their  flashing  and  brilliant  wit.  How  little  they 
knew  that  such  qualities,  by  some  strange  incongruity  of  our 
natures,  are  the  accompaniments  of  deeply  reflective  and 
imaginative  minds,  overshadowed  by  lowering  fortune.  The 
glittering  fancy  that  seems  to  illumine  the  path  of  life  is 
often  but  the  wildfire  that  dances  over  the  bleak  and 
desolate  heath. 

Their  apathy  and  indifference  to  exertion  was  made  a 
matter  of  reproach  to  them ;  yet,  was  it  ever  known  that 
toil  should  be  voluntary,  when  hopeless,  and  that  labor 
should  be  endured  without  a  prospect  of  requital? 

We  have  been  led  almost  unconsciously  into  this  some- 
what lengthened  digression,  for  which,  even  did  it  not  bear 
upon  the  circumstances  of  our  story,  we  would  not  seek  to 
apologize  to  our  reader.     Such  we  believe  to  have  been,  in 


142  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

great  part,  the  wrongs  of  Ireland  —  the  fertile  source  of 
those  thousand  evils  under  which  the  land  was  suffering. 
From  this  one  theme  have  arisen  most,  if  not  all,  the  calam- 
ities of  the  country.  Happy  were  it  if  we  could  say  that 
such  existed  no  longer ;  that  such  a  state  of  things  was  a 
matter  for  historical  inquiry,  or  an  old  man's  memory ;  and 
that,  in  our  own  day,  these  instances  were  not  to  be  found 
among  us. 

When  Hemsworth  perceived  that  the  project  of  his  life 
was  in  peril,  he  bethought  him  of  ever}^  means  by  which 
the  danger  could  be  averted.  Deep  and  well-founded  as 
was  his  confidence  in  the  cleverness  of  his  deputy,  his 
station  was  an  insurmountable  barrier  to  his  utility  at  the 
present  conjuncture.  Sam  Wylie,  for  so  this  worthy  was 
called,  was  admirable  as  a  spy,  but  never  could  be  em- 
ployed as  minister  plenipotentiary :  it  needed  one,  now, 
who  should  possess  more  influence  over  Sir  Marmaduke 
himself.  For  this  purpose,  Frederick  Travers  alone  seemed 
the  fitting  person ;  to  him,  therefore,  Hemsworth  wrote  a 
letter  marked  "  strictly  confidential,"  detailing  with  pains- 
taking accuracy  the  inevitable  misfortunes  Sir  Marmaduke's 
visit  would  entail  upon  a  people  whose  demands  no  benevo- 
lence could  satisfy,  whose  expectations  no  concessions  could 
content. 

He  narrated  the  fearful  instances  of  their  vengeance, 
whenever  disappointment  had  checked  the  strong  current 
of  their  hopes,  and  told,  with  all  the  semblance  of  truth, 
of  scenes  of  bloodshed  and  miurder,  no  cause  for  which 
could  be  traced  save  in  the  dark  suspicions  of  a  people  long 
accustomed  to  regard  the  Saxon  as  their  tyrant. 

The  night  attack  upon  the  Lodge  furnished  also  its  theme 
of  terror ;  and  so  artfully  did  he  blend  his  fact  and  fiction, 
his  true  statement  and  bis  false  inference,  that  the  young 
man  read  the  epistle  with  an  anxious  and  beating  heart,  and 
longed  for  the  hour  when  he  should  recall  those  he  held 
dearest  from  such  a  land  of  anarch}'  and  misfortune. 

Not  satisfied  with  the  immediate  object  in  view,  Hems- 
worth ingeniously  contrived  to  instil  into  Frederick's  mind 
misgivings  as  to  the  value  of  an  estate  thus  circumstanced, 
representing,  not  without  some  truth  on  his  side,  that  the 


"THE   GUARDSMAN."  143 

only  chance  of  bettering  the  condition  of  a  peasantry  so 
sunk  and  degraded  was  by  an  actual  residence  in  the  midst 
of  them,  —  a  penalty  which,  to  the  j^outh,  seemed  too  dear 
for  any  requital  whatever. 

On  a  separate  slip  of  paper,  marked  "  to  be  burned  when 
read,"  Frederick  deciphered  the  following  lines :  — 

Above  all  things,  I  would  caution  you  regarding  a  family  who, 
though  merely  of  the  rank  of  farmer,  affect  a  gentility  which  had 
its  origin  some  dozen  centuries  back,  and  has  had  ample  oppor- 
tunity to  leak  out  in  the  mean  time  ;  these  are  the  "  O'Donoghues," 
a  dangerous  set,  haughty,  ill-conditioned,  and  scheming.  They 
will  endeavor,  if  they  can,  to  obtain  influence  with  your  father, 
and  1  cannot  too  strongly  rej)resent  the  hazard  of  such  an  event. 
Do  not,  1  entreat  you,  suffer  his  compassion,  or  mistaken  benevo- 
lence, to  be  exercised  in  their  behalf.  Were  they  merely  unworthy, 
I  should  say  nothing  on  the  subject ;  but  they  are  highly  and 
eminently  dangerous  in  a  land  where  their  claims  are  regarded  as 
only  in  abeyance,  —  deferred,  but  not  obliterated,  by  confiscation. 

E.  H. 

It  would  in  no  wise  forward  the  views  of  our  story  were 
we  to  detail  to  our  readers  the  affecting  scenes  which  pre- 
luded Frederick's  departure  from  London,  the  explanations 
he  was  called  on  to  repeat,  as  he  went  from  house  to  house, 
for  a  journey  at  once  so  sudden  and  extraordinary ;  for 
even  so  late  as  fifty  years  ago  a  visit  to  Ireland  was  a 
matter  of  more  moment,  and  accompanied  by  more  solemn 
preparation,  than  many  now  bestow  on  an  overland  journey 
to  India.  The  Lady  Marys  and  Bettys  of  the  fashionable 
world  regarded  him  prett}''  much  as  the  damsels  of  old  did 
some  doughty  knight  when  setting  forth  on  his  way  to 
Palestine.  That  filial  affection  could  exact  such  an  instance 
of  devotion  called  up  their  astonishment  even  more  than 
their  admiration  ;  and  many  were  the  cautions,  many  the 
friendly  counsels,  given  to  the  youth  for  his  preservation  in 
a  land  so  rife  with  danger. 

Frederick  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one ;  but  still  he 
was  not  entirely  divested  of  those  apprehensions  which  the 
ignorance  of  the  day  propagated ;  and  although  only  ac- 
<5ompanied  by  a  single  servant,  they  were  both  armed  to  the 


144  THE   O'DONOGHTJE. 

teeth,  and  prepared  to  do  valiant  battle,  if  need  be,  against 
the  Irish  "rogues  and  rapparees." 

Here,  then,  for  the  present,  we  shall  leave  him,  having 
made  his  lasf'adieux"  to  his  friends,  and  set  out  on  his 
journey  to  Ireland. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   COMMENTS    ON   A    HURRIED    DEPARTURE. 

Brief  as  has  been  the  interval  of  our  absence  from  Glen- 
flesk,  time's  changes  have  been  there.  Herbert  O'Donoghue 
had  experienced  a  fortunate  change  in  his  malady,  and  on 
the  day  following  Roach's  eventful  return  became  actually 
out  of  danger.  The  symptoms  of  his  disease,  so  suddenly 
subdued,  seemed  to  reflect  immortal  honor  on  the  doctor, 
who  certainly  did  not  scruple  to  attribute  to  his  skill  what, 
with  more  truth,  was  owing  to  native  vigor  and  youth. 
Sir  Archy  alone  was  ungrateful  enough  to  deny  the  claim 
of  physic,  and  slightly  hinted  to  Roach  that  he  had  at 
least  benefited  his  patient  by  example,  if  not  by  precept, 
since  he  had  slept  the  entire  night  through  without  awaking. 
The  remark  was  a  declaration  of  war  at  once ;  nor  was 
Roach  slow  to  accept  the  gage  of  battle,  —  in  fact,  both 
parties  were  well  wearied  of  the  truce,  and  anxious  for  the 
fray.  Sir  Archibald  had  only  waited  till  the  moment 
Roach's  services  in  the  sick  room  could  be  safely  dispensed 
with  to  reopen  his  fire ;  while  Roach,  harassed  by  so  unex- 
pected a  peace,  felt  like  a  beleaguered  fortress  during  the 
operation  of  the  miners,  and  knew  not  when  and  how  the 
dreaded  explosion  was  to  occur.  Now,  however,  the  signal- 
gun  was  fired,  hesitation  was  at  an  end ;  and,  of  a  verity,  the 
champions  showed  no  disinclination  for  the  field. 

"  Ye  '11  be  hungry  this  morning,  doctor,"  said  Sir  Archy, 
"  and  I  have  ordered  breakfast  a  bit  early.  A  pick  o'  ham 
at  twelve  o'clock,  and  a  quart  of  sherry,  aye  gives  a  man  a 
relish  for  breakfast." 

"  Begad,  so  it  might,  or  for  supper  too,"  responded 
Roach,  "when  the  ham  was  a  shank-bone,  and  the  sherry- 
bottle  like  a  four-ounce  mixture." 

VOL,  I.  — 10 


146  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"  Ye  slept  surprisingly  after  your  slight  refection.  I 
heerd  ye  snoring  like  a  grampus." 

" 'T  was  n't  the  nightmare  from  indigestion,  anyhow," 
said  Roach,  with  a  grin.  "I'll  give  you  a  clean  bill  of 
health  from  that  malady  here." 

"  It 's  weel  for  us  that  we  ken  a  cure  for  it,  —  more  than 
ye  can  say  for  the  case  you  've  just  left." 

"  I  saved  the  boy's  life,"  said  Roach,  indignantly. 

"Assuredly  ye  did  na  kill  him,  and  folks  canna  a'ways 
say  as  muckle  for  ye.  We  maun  thank  the  Lord  for  a'  his 
mercies ;  and  he  vouchsafed  you  a  vara  sound  sleep." 

How  this  controversy  was  to  be  carried  on  farther  it  is 
not  easy  to  say,  but  at  this  moment  the  door  of  the  break- 
fast-room opened  cautiously,  and  a  wild,  rough  head  peeped 
stealthily  in,  which  gradually  was  followed  by  the  neck, 
and  in  succession  the  rest  of  the  figure,  of  Kerry  O'Leary, 
who,  dropping  down  on  both  knees  before  the  doctor,  cried 
out  in  a  most  lamentable  accent,  — 

"Oh!  docther,  darlint  —  docther  dear — forgive  me  —  for 
the  love  of  Joseph,  forgive  me !  " 

Roach's  temper  was  not  in  its  blandest  moment,  and  his 
face  grew  purple  with  passion  as  he  beheld  the  author  of  his 
misfortunes  at  his  feet. 

"Get  out  of  my  sight,  you  scoundrel;  I  never  want  to 
set  eyes  on  you  till  I  see  you  in  the  dock,  —  ay,  with  hand- 
cuffs on  you." 

"  Oh,  murther,  murther,  is  it  take  the  law  of  me  for  a 
charge  of  swan-drops  ?  Oh,  docther  acushla,  don't  say  you  '11 
do  it." 

"  I  '11  have  your  life,  as  sure  as  my  name  's  Roach." 

"  Try  him  wi'  a  draught,"  interposed  M'Nab. 

"  Begorra,  I'm  willin',"  cried  Kerry,  grasping  at  the 
mediation.  ''I'll  take  anything,  barrin'  the  black  grease 
he  gave  the  masther,  —  that  would  kill  the  divil." 

This  exceptive  compliment  to  his  skill  was  not  so  accept- 
able to  the  doctor,  whose  passion  boiled  over  at  the  new 
indignity. 

"  I  '11  spend  fifty  guineas  but  I  '11  hang  you,  —  there  's  my 
word  on  it." 

"Oh,  wirra !  wirra !  "  cried  Kerry,  whose  apprehensions 


THE  COMMENTS  ON  A  HURRIED  DEPARTURE.      147 

of  how  much  law  might  be  had  for  the  money  made  him 
tremble  all  over,  "  that's  what  I  get  for  tramping  the  roads 
all  night  after  the  pon3\" 

"AYhere's  the  pony  —  where 's  the  gig?"  called  out 
Roach,  suddenly  reminded  by  material  interests  that  he  had 
more  at  stake  than  mere  vengeance. 

"The  beast  is  snug  in  the  stable,  —  that's  where  he  is, 
eating  a  peck  of  oats  —  last  year's  corn  —  divil  a  less." 

"And  the  gig?" 

"Oh,  the  gig  is  it?  Musha,  we  have  the  gig,  too," 
responded  Kerry,  but  with  a  reluctance  that  could  not  escape 
the  shrewd  questioner. 

"  Where  is  it,  then?  "  said  Roach,  impatiently. 

"Where  would  it  be,  but  in  the  yard?  We're  going  to 
wash  it." 

The  doctor  did  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  this  reply, 
but  hastening  from  the  room,  passed  down  the  few  stairs 
that  led  towards  the  old  court-yard,  followed  by  Sir  Archy 
and  Kerry,  the  one  eager  to  witness  the  termination  of  the 
scene,  the  other  muttering  in  a  very  different  spirit,  "  Oh, 
but  it 's  now  we  '11  have  the  divil  to  pay !  " 

As  soon  as  Roach  arrived  at  the  court-yard,  he  turned 
his  eyes  on  every  side  to  seek  his  conveyance ;  but  although 
there  were  old  harrows,  broken  ploughs,  and  disabled  wheel- 
barrows in  numbers,  nothing  was  there  that  bore  any  resem- 
blance to  what  he  sought. 

"  Where  is  it?"  said  he,  turning  to  Kerry,  with  a  look  of 
exasperation   that  defied   all   attempt  to  assuage  by   mere 

blarney," — "where  is  it?" 
'  Here  it  is,  then,"  said  O'Leary,  with  the  tone  of  one 
whose  courage  was  nerved  by  utter  despair,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  he  drew  forth  two  wheels  and  an  axle,  the  sole 
surviving  members  of  the  late  vehicle.  As  he  displayed 
the  wreck  before  them,  the  ludicrous  —  always  too  strong 
for  an  Irish  peasant,  no  matter  how  much  it  may  be  asso- 
ciated with  his  own  personal  danger  —  overcame  his  more 
discreet  instincts,  and  he  broke  forth  into  a  broad  grin, 
while  he  cried,  "  '  There  's  the  inside  of  her  now !  '  as  Darby 
Cossoon  said,  when  he  tuk  his  watch  in  pieces, '  and,  begorra, 
we'll  see  how  she's  made,  any  way.'  " 


(( 
( 


148  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

This  true  history  must  not  recount  the  expressions  in 
which  Roach  permitted  himself  to  indulge.  It  is  enough 
to  say  that  his  passion  took  the  most  violent  form  of  invec- 
tive against  the  house,  the  glen,  the  family,  and  their 
retainers,  to  an  extreme  generation,  while  he  stamped  and 
gesticulated  like  one  insane. 

"Ye '11  hae  sma'  space  for  yer  luggage  in  yon,"  said 
M'Nab,  with  one  of  his  dry  est  laughs,  while  he  turned  back 
and  re-entered  the  house. 

"Where  's  my  pony?  —  where  's  my  pony?  "  shouted  out 
the  doctor,  determined  to  face  all  his  calamities  at  once. 

"Oh,  faix,  he  's  nothing  the  worse,"  said  Kerry,  as  he 
unlocked  the  door  of  the  stable,  and  pointed  with  all  the 
pride  of  veracity  to  a  beast  in  the  stall  before  him.  "There 
he  is,  jumping  like  a  kid  out  of  his  skin  wid  fun  this 
morning." 

Now,  although  the  first  part  of  Kerry's  simile  was  as- 
suredly incorrect,  as  no  kid  of  which  we  have  any  record 
ever  bore  the  least  resemblance  to  the  animal  in  question, 
as  to  the  fact  of  being  "out  of  his  skin,"  there  could  not 
be  a  second  opinion,  the  beast  being  almost  entirely  flayed 
from  his  shoulders  to  his  haunches,  his  eyes  being  repre- 
sented by  two  globular  masses  about  the  size  of  billiard- 
balls,  and  his  tail  bearing  some  affinity  to  an  overgrown 
bamboo,  as  it  hung  down,  jointed  and  knotted,  but  totally 
destitute  of  hair. 

"The  thief  of  the  world!"  said  Kerry,  as  he  patted  him 
playfully.  "  He  stripped  a  trifle  of  hair  off  him  with  kick- 
ing ;  but  a  little  gunpowder  and  butter  will  bring  it  on  again 
in  a  day  or  two." 

"Liar  that  thou  art,  Kerry,  it  would  take  a  cask  of  one  and 
a  firkin  of  the  other  to  make  up  the  necessary  ointment!  " 

There  are  some  evils  which  no  anticipation  can  paint 
equal  to  their  severity,  and  these,  in  compensation,  per- 
haps, are  borne  for  the  most  part  without  the  sanne  violent 
exuberance  of  sorrow  lesser  misfortunes  elicit.  So  it  was, 
—  Roach  spoke  not  a  word ;  one  menace  of  his  clinched 
hand  towards  Kerry  was  the  only  token  he  gave  of  his 
malice,   and  he  left  the  stable. 

"I  've  a  note  here  for  Doctor  Roach,"  said  the  servant, 


i?^o/iJ^  ^^^^-r?^7_y-^3^n^_^&i^^^(:y2. 


1 


THE  COMMENTS  ON  A  HURRIED  DEPARTURE.      149 

in  Sir  Marmaduke's  livery,  to  Kerry,  as  be  proceeded  to 
close  and  lock  the  stable  door. 

"I  'm  the  person,"  said  the  doctor,  taking  the  billet  and 
breaking  the  seal.  ''Have  you  the  carriage  here  now?'* 
asked  he,  when  he  had  finished  reading. 

"Yes,  sir,  it's  on  the  road.  Sir  Marmaduke  desired  me 
not  to  drive  up,  for  fear  of  disturbing  the  sick  gentle- 
man." 

"I  'm  ready,  then,"  said  the  doctor;  and  never  casting  a 
look  backward,  nor  vouchsafing  another  word,  he  passed 
out  of  the  gate,  and  descended  towards  the  high  road. 

"I  '11  take  good  care  of  the  baste  till  I  see  you,  sir!  " 
shouted  Kerry  after  him;  and  then,  as  the  distance  widened, 
he  added,  "and  may  I  never  see  your  ould  yallow  wig  agin, 
I  pray  this  day.  Divil  take  me,  but  I  hope  you  've  some  of 
the  slugs  in  ye,  after  all."  And  with  these  pious  wishes, 
expressed  fervently,  Kerry  returned  to  the  house,  his  heart 
considerably  lightened  by  the  doctor's  departure. 

Scarcely  was  he  seated  beside  the  kitchen  fire,  —  the 
asylum  he  regarded  as  his  own,  —  when,  all  fears  for  his 
misconduct  and  its  consequences  past,  he  began  speculat- 
ing in  a  very  Ii'ish  fashion  on  the  reasons  of  the  doctor's 
sudden  departure. 

"He  's  off  now  to  the  Lodge  —  divil  fear  him  —  faix,  if 
he  gets  in  there,  they'll  not  get  him  out  so  asy;  they'll 
have  a  pain  for  every  day  of  the  week  before  he  leaves 
them.     Well,  well,  thanks  be  to  God,  he  's  out  of  this." 

"Is  he  gone,  Kerry?"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan.  "Did  he 
leave  a  'cure'  for  Master  Herbert  before  he  went?" 

"Sorra  bit,"  cried  Kerry,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  struck 
him,  "that's  what  he  didn't!"  And,  without  hesitating 
another  moment,  he  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  mounted 
the  stairs  towards  the  parlor,  where  now  the  O'Donoghue, 
Mark,  and  Sir  Archy  were  assembled  at  breakfast. 

"He  's  away,  sir,  he  's  off  again,"  said  Kerry,  as  though 
the  nature  of  his  tidings  did  not  demand  any  more  cere- 
monious preliminary. 

"Who's  away?  Who's  gone?"  cried  they  all,  in  a 
breath. 

"  The  doctor,  sir,  —  Doctor   Roach.     There  was  a  chap 


150  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

in  a  sky-blue  livery  came  up  with  a  bit  of  a  letter  for  him 
to  go  clown  there,  and  when  he  read  it,  he  just  turned 
about,  this  way,"  —  here  Kerry  performed  a  not  over  grace- 
ful pirouette,  —  "and  without  saying  'By  yer  leave,'  he 
walks  down  the  road  and  gets  into  the  coach.  'Won't  you 
see  Master  Herbert  before  you  go,  sir,'  says  I;  'sure  you  're 
not  leaving  him  that  way  ? '  But  bad  luck  to  one  word 
he'd  say,   but  went  away  wid  a  grin  on  him." 

"What!"  cried  Mark,  as  his  face  crimsoned  with  pas- 
sion. "Is  this  true?  —  are  you  sure  of  what  you're 
saying?" 

"I'll  take  the  book  an  it,"  said  Kerry,  solemnly. 

"Well,  Archy,"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  addressing  his 
brother-in-law.  "You  are  a  good  judge  of  these  matters. 
Is  this  conduct  on  the  part  of  our  neighbors  suitable  or 
becoming?  Was  it  exactly  right  and  proper  to  send  here 
for  one  whose  services  we  had  taken  the  trouble  to  seek, 
and  might  much  have  needed  besides  ?  Should  we  not  have 
been  consulted,  think  you?" 

"  There  's  not  a  poor  farmer  in  the  glen  would  not  resent 
it!  "  cried  Mark,  passionately. 

"Bide  a  wee,  bide  a  wee,"  said  Sir  Archy,  cautiously; 
"we  hae  na  heard  a'  the  tale  yet.  Roach  may  perhaps 
explain." 

"He  had  better  not  come  here  to  do  so,"  interrupted 
Mark,  as  he  strode  the  room  in  passion;  "he  has  a  taste 
for  hasty  departures,  and,  by  G — ,  I'll  help  him  to  one; 
for  out  of  that  window  he  goes,  as  sure  as  my  name  is 
Mark." 

"'T  is  the  way  to  serve  him,  divil  a  doubt,"  chimed  in 
Kerry,  who  was  not  sorry  to  think  how  agreeably  he  might 
thus  be  relieved  from  any  legal  difficulties, 

"I  am  no  seeking  to  excuse  the  man,"  said  Sir  Archy, 
temperately.  "It's  weel  kenned  we  hae  na  muckle  love  for 
ane  anither;  but  fair  play  is  bonnie  play." 

"  I  never  heard  a  mean  action  yet,  but  there  was  a  Scotch 
adage  to  warrant  it,"  muttered  Mark,  in  a  whisper  inau- 
dible by  the  rest. 

"It 's  no  improbable  but  that  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers 
did  ask  if  the  doctor  could  be  spared,  and  it's  no  impos- 


THE  COMMENTS  ON  A  HURRIED  DEPARTURE.      151 

sible,  either,  that  Roach  took  the  answering  the  question  in 
his  ain  hands." 

''I  don't  think  so,"  broke  in  Mark;  "the  whole  thing 
bears  a  different  aspect.  It  smacks  of  English  courtesy  to 
an  Irish  kern." 

"By  Jove,  Mark  is  right,"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  whose 
prejudices,  strengthened  by  poverty,  too  readily  chimed  in 
with  any  suspicion  of  intended  insult. 

"They  were  not  long  learning  the  game,"  said  Mark, 
bitterly;  "they  are,  if  I  remember  aright,  scarce  two 
months  in  the  country,  and,  see,  they  treat  us  as  'mere 
Irish'  already." 

"Ye'r  ower  hasty,  Mark.  I  hae  na  muckle  respect  for 
Roach,  nor  wad  I  vouch  for  his  good  breeding ;  but  a  gen- 
tleman, as  this  Sir  Marmaduke's  note  bespeaks  him  —  " 

"What  note?     I  never  heard  of  it." 

"Oh,  it  was  a  polite  kind  of  message,  Mark,  to  say  he 
would  be  obliged  if  I  permitted  him  to  pay  his  respects 
here.     I  forgot  to  tell  you  of  it." 

"  Does  the  enemy  desire  to  peep  at  the  fortress,  that  he 
may  calculate  how  long  we  can  hold  out?  "  said  the  youth, 
sternly. 

"Begorra,  with  the  boys  from  Bally vourney  and  Inchi- 
geela,  we  '11  howld  the  place  agin  the  English  army,"  said 
Kerry,  mistaking  the  figurative  meaning  of  the  speech;  and 
he  rubbed  his  hands  with  delight  at  the  bare  prospect  of 
such  a  consummation. 

Sir  Archy  turned  an  angry  look  towards  him,  and 
motioned  with  his  hand  for  him  to  leave  the  room.  Kerry 
closed  the  door  after  him,  and  for  some  minutes  the  silence 
was  unbroken. 

"What  does  it  matter,  after  all?  "  said  the  O'Donoghue, 
with  a  sigh.  "It  is  a  mere  folly  to  care  for  these  things, 
now.  When  the  garment  is  worn  and  threadbare,  one  need 
scarce  fret  that  the  lace  is  a  little  tarnished." 

"True,  sir,  quite  true;  but  you  are  not  bound  to  forget  or 
forgive  him  who  would  strip  it  rudely  off,  even  a  day  or  an 
hour  before  its  time." 

"There  is  na  muckle  good  in  drawing  inferences  from 
imaginary  evils.      Shadows  are  a'  bad    enough,  but   they 


152  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

needna  hae  children  and  grandchildren;  and  so  I'll  even 
take  a  cup  of  tea  to  the  callant."  And  thus,  wise  in 
practice  and  precept,  Sir  Archibald  left  the  room,  while 
O'Donoghue  and  Mark,  ali'eady  wearied  of  the  theme,  ceased 
to  discuss  it  farther. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SOME  OP  THE  PLEASURES  OF  PROPERTY. 

In  a  small,  but  most  comfortable  apartment  of  the  Lodge, 
which,  in  virtue  of  its  book-shelves  and  smartly  bound 
volumes,  was  termed  "the  Study,"  sat  Sir  Marmaduke 
Travers.  Before  him  was  a  table  covered  with  writing 
materials,  books,  pamphlets,  prints,  and  drawings;  his 
great  arm-chair  was  the  very  ideal  of  lounging  luxury,  and 
in  the  soft  carpet  his  slippered  feet  were  almost  hidden. 
Through  the  window  at  his  right  hand  an  alley  in  the  beech 
wood  opened  a  view  of  mountain  scenery  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  equal  in  any  country  of  Europe.  In  a 
word,  it  was  a  very  charming  little  chamber,  and  might 
have  excited  the  covetousness  of  those  whose  minds  must 
minister  to  their  maintenance,  and  who  rarely  pursue  their 
toilsome  task  save  debarred  from  every  sound  and  sight 
that  might  foster  imagination.  How  almost  invariably  is 
this  the  case!  Who  has  not  seen,  a  hundred  times  over, 
some  perfect  little  room,  every  detail  of  whose  economy 
seemed  devised  to  sweeten  the  labor  of  the  mind,  teeming 
with  its  many  appliances  for  enjoyment,  yet  encouraging 
thought  more  certainly  than  ministering  to  luxury ;  with  its 
cabinet  pictures,  its  carvings,  its  antique  armor,  suggestive 
in  turn  of  some  passage  in  history,  or  some  page  in  fiction ; 
—  who  has  not  seen  these  devoted  to  the  half-hour  lounge 
over  a  newspaper,  or  the  tiresome  examination  of  house  ex- 
penditure with  the  steward,  while  he,  whose  mental  flights 
were  soaring  midway  'twixt  earth  and  heaven,  looked  out 
from  some  gloomy  and  cobwebbed  pane  upon  a  forest  of 
chimneys,  surrounded  by  all  the  evils  of  poverty,  and 
tortured  by  the  daily  conflict  with  necessity. 


154  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

Here  sat  Sir  Marmaduke,  a  great  volume  like  a  ledger 
open  before  him,  in  which,  from  time  to  time,  he  employed 
himself  in  making  short  memoranda.  Directly  in  front  of 
him  stood,  in  an  attitude  of  respectful  attention,  a  man  of 
about  five-and-forty  years  of  age,  who,  although  dressed  in 
an  humble  garb,  had  yet  a  look  of  something  above  the 
common;  his  features  were  homely,  but  intelligent,  and 
though  a  quick,  sharp  glance  shot  from  his  gray  eye  when  he 
spoke,  yet  in  his  soft,  smooth  voice  the  words  came  forth 
with  a  measured  calm  that  served  to  indicate  a  patient 
and  gentle  disposition.  His  frame  betokened  strength, 
while  his  face  was  pale  and  colorless,  and  without  the 
other  indications  of  active  health  in  his  gait  and  walk 
would  have  implied  a  delicacy  of  constitution.  This  was 
Sam  Wylie,  the  sub-agent,  —  one  whose  history  may  be 
told  in  a  few  words.  His  father  had  been  a  butler  in  the 
O'Donoghue  house,  where  he  died,  leaving  his  son,  a  mere 
child,  as  a  legacy  to  his  master.  The  boy,  however,  did 
not  turn  out  well ;  delinquencies  of  various  kinds  —  theft 
among  the  number  —  were  discovered  against  him;  and 
after  many,  but  ineffectual,  efforts  to  reclaim  him,  he  was 
turned  off,  and  advised,  as  he  wished  to  escape  worse,  to 
leave  the  county.  He  took  the  counsel,  and  did  so ;  nor  for 
many  a  year  after  was  he  seen  or  heard  of.  A  report  ran 
that  he  passed  fourteen  years  in  transportation;  but  how- 
ever that  might  be,  when  he  next  appeared  in  Kerry,  it  was 
in  the  train  of  a  civil  engineer,  come  to  make  surveys  of 
the  county.  His  cleverness  and  skill  in  this  occupation 
recommended  him  to  the  notice  of  Hemsworth,  who  soon 
after  appointed  him  as  bailiff,  and  subsequently  sub-agent 
on  the  estate;  and  in  this  capacity  he  had  now  served 
about  fifteen  years,  to  the  perfect  satisfaction,  and  with 
the  full  confidence  of  his  chief.  Of  his  "antecedents  "  Sir 
Marmaduke  knew  nothing;  he  was  only  aware  of  the  im- 
'plicit  trust  Hemsworth  had  in  him,  and  his  own  brief 
experience  perfectly  concurred  in  the  justice  of  the  opinion. 
He  certainly  found  him  intelligent,  and  thoroughly  well 
informed  on  all  connected  with  the  property.  When  ques- 
tioned, his  answers  were  prompt,  direct,  and  to  the  pur- 
pose; and  to  one  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  business  habits  this 


SOME  OF  THE  PLEASURES  OF  PROPERTY.    155 

quality  possessed  merit  of  the  highest  order.  If  he  had  a 
fault  with  him,  it  was  one  he  could  readil}^  pardon,  —  a 
leniency  towards  the  people,  a  desire  to  palliate  their  errors 
and  extenuate  their  failings,  and  always  to  promise  well 
for  the  future,  eyen  when  the  present  looked  least  auspi- 
cious. His  hearty  concurrence  with  all  the  old  baronet's 
plans  for  improyement  were  also  highly  in  his  favor;  and 
already  Wylie  was  looked  on  as  "  a  yery  acute  fellow,  and 
with  really  wonderful  shrewdness  for  his  station ;  "  as  if 
any  of  that  acuteness  or  that  shrewdness,  so  estimated, 
could  haye  its  growth  in  a  more  prolific  soil  than  in  the 
heart  and  mind  of  one  bred  and  reared  among  the  people, 
who  knew  their  habits,  their  tone  of  thinking,  their  man- 
ners, and  their  motives,  —  not  through  any  false  medium  of 
speculation  and  theory,  but  practically,  innately,  instinc- 
tively, —  who  had  not  studied  the  peasantry  like  an  alge- 
braic formula,  or  a  problem  in  Euclid,  but  read  them  as 
they  sat  beside  their  turf  fires,  in  the  smoke  of  their  mud 
hovels,  cowering  from  the  cold  of  winter,  and  gathering 
around  the  scanty  meal  of  potatoes,  —  the  only  tribute  they 
had  not  rendered  to  the  landlord. 

"Roger  Sweeney,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  — "Roger 
Sweeney  complains  of  his  distance  from  the  bog;  he  can- 
not draw  his  turf  so  easily  as  when  he  lived  on  that  swamp 
below  the  lake ;  but  I  think  the  change  ought  to  recompense 
him  for  the  inconvenience." 

''He  's  a  Ballyvourney  man,  your  honor,"  said  Sam, 
placidly,  ''and  if  you  couldn't  bring  the  turf  up  to  his 
door,  and  cut  it  for  him,  and  stack  it,  and  carry  a  creel  of 
it  inside,  to  make  the  fire,  he  'd  not  be  content." 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  accepting  an 
explanation  he  was  far  from  thoroughly  understanding. 
"Then  there's  Jack  Heffernan, — what  does  this  fellow 
mean  by  saying  that  a  Berkshire  pig  is  no  good?" 

"He  onl}^  means,  your  honor,  that  he  's  too  good  for  the 
place,  and  wants  better  food  than  the  rest  of  the  family." 

"The  man  's  a  fool,  and  must  learn  better.  Lord  Mud- 
ford  told  me  that  he  never  saw  such  an  excellent  breed,  and 
his  swineherd  is  one  of  the  most  experienced  fellows  in 
England.     Widow  Mul  —  Mul  —  what?  "  said  he,  endeavor- 


I 


156  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

ing  to  spell  an  unusually  long  name  in  the  book  before 
him,  — ''  Mulla  —  " 

"Mallahedert,  your  honor,"  slipped  in  ^"ylie,  "a  very 
dacent  crayture." 

''Then  why  won't  she  keep  those  beehives?  Can't  she 
see  what  an  excellent  thing  honey  is  in  the  house?  —  if  one 
of  her  children  was  sick,  for  instance." 

''True  for  you,  sir,"  said  Sam,  without  the  slightest 
change  of  feature.  ^'  It  is  wonderful  how  your  honor  can 
have  the  mind  to  think  of  these  things,  —  upon  my  word, 
it 's   surprising." 

"Samuel  M'Elroy  refuses  to  drain  the  field,  does  he?  " 

"No,  sir;  but  he  says  the  praties  isn't  worth  digging 
out  of  dry  ground,  nor  never  does  grow  to  any  size.  He  's 
a  Bally vourney  man,  too,  sir." 

"Oh,  is  he?"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  accepting  this  as  a 
receipt  in  full  for  any  degree  of  eccentricity. 

"Shamus  M'Gillicuddy,  — Heavens,  what  a  name!  This 
Shamus  appears  a  very  desperate  fellow ;  he  beat  a  man  the 
other  evening,  coming  back  from  the  market." 

"It  was  only  a  neighbor,  sir;  they  live  fornint  each 
other." 

"A  neighbor!  but,  bless  my  heart,  that  makes  it  worse." 

"Sure,  sir,  it  was  nothing  to  speak  of;  it  was  Darby 
Lenahan  said  your  honor's  bull  was  a  pride  to  the  place, 
and  Shamus  said  the  O'Donoghue's  was  a  finer  baste  any 
day;  and  from  one  word  they  came  to  another,  and  the  end 
of  it  was,  Lenahan  got  a  crack  on  the  skull  that  laid  him 
quivering  on  the  daisies." 

"Savage  ruffian,  that  Shamus;  I'll  keep  a  sharp  eye  on 
him." 

"Faix,  and  there's  no  need, — he's  a  Ballyvourney 
man." 

The  old  baronet  looked  up  from  his  large  volume,  and 
seemed  for  a  moment  undecided  whether  he  should  not  ask 
the  meaning  of  a  phrase,  which,  occurring  at  every  moment, 
appeared  most  perplexing  in  signification;  but  the  thought 
that  by  doing  so  he  should  confess  his  ignorance  before 
the  sub-agent  deterred  him,  and  he  resolved  to  leave  the 
interpretation  to  time  and  his  own  ingenuity. 


SOME  OF  THE  PLEASURES  OF  PROPERTY.    157 

"AVhat  of  this  old  fellow  who  has  the  mill,  — has  he  con- 
sented  to  have  the  overshot  wheel  ?  " 

"He  tried  it  on  Tuesda}^,  sir,"  said  Sam,  with  an  almost 
imperceptible  smile,  "and  the  sluice  gave  way,  and  carried 
off  the  house  and  the  end  of  the  barn  into  the  tail  race. 
He  's  gone  in  to  take  an  action  again  your  honor  for  the 
damages." 

"Ungrateful  rascal!  I  told  him  I'd  be  at  the  whole 
expense  myself,  and  I  explained  the  great  saving  of  water 
the  new  wheel  would  insure  him." 

"True,  indeed,  sir;  but  as  the  stream  never  went  dry 
for  thirty  years,  the  ould  idiot  thought  it  would  last  his 
time.  Begorra,  he  had  enough  of  water  on  Tuesday, 
anyhow." 

"He  's  a  Ballyvourney  man,  is  n't  he?  " 

"He  is,  sir,"  replied  Wylie,  with  the  gravity  of  a  judge. 

Another  temptation  crossed  Sir  Marmaduke's  mind,  but 
he  withstood  it,   and  went  on,  — 

"The  mountain  has  then  been  divided  as  I  ordered, 
has  it?" 

''Yes,  sir;  the  lines  were  all  marked  out  before 
Saturday." 

"Well,  I  suppose  the  people  were  pleased  to  know  that 
they  have  each  their  own  separate  pasturage?" 

"Indeed,  and,  sir,  I  won't  tell  you  a  lie,  — they  are  not; 
they'd  rather  it  was  the  ould  way  still." 

"What,  have  I  taken  all  this  trouble  for  nothing,  then? 
Is  it  possible  that  they  'd  rather  have  their  cattle  straying 
wild  about  the  country  than  see  them  grazing  peaceably  on 
their  own  land  ?  " 

"That's  just  it,  sir;  for,  you  see,  when  they  had  the 
mountain  among  them,  they  fed  on  what  they  could  get; 
one  had,  maybe,  a  flock  of  goats;  another,  maybe,  a  sheep 
or  two,   a  heifer,   an  ass,   or  a  bullsheen." 

"A  what?" 

"A  little  bull,  your  honor;  and  they  did  n't  mind  if  one 
had  more  nor  another,  nor  where  they  went,  for  the  place 
was  their  own;  but  now  that  it  is  all  marked  out  and 
divided,  begorra,  if  a  beast  is  got  trespassing,  out  comes 
some  one  with  a  stick  and  wallops  him  back  again,  and  then 


158  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

the  man  that  owns  him,  natural  enough,  would  n't  see  shame 
on  his  cow,  or  whatever  it  was,  and  that  leads  to  a  fight ;  and, 
faix,  there  's  not  a  day  now  but  there  's  blood  spilt  over  the 
same  boundaries." 

"They  're  actually  savages!  "  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  as  he 
threw  his  spectacles  over  his  forehead,  and  dropped  his  pen 
from  his  fingers  in  mute  amazement;  "I  never  heard  —  I 
never  read  of  such  a  people." 

"They  're  Bally vourney  men,"  chimed  in  Wylie,  as- 
sentively. 

*^D— d— " 

Sir  Marmaduke  checked  himself  suddenly,  for  the  idea 
flashed  on  him  that  he  ought,  at  least,  to  know  what  he 
was  cursing,  and  so  he  abstained  from  such  a  perilous 
course,  and  resumed  his  search  in  the  big  volume.  Alas ! 
his  pursuit  of  information  was  not  more  successful  as  he 
proceeded.  Every  moment  disclosed  some  case  where,  in 
his  honest  efforts  to  improve  the  condition  of  the  people, 
from  ignorance  of  their  habits,  from  total  unconsciousness 
of  the  social  differences  of  two  nations  essentially  unlike, 
he  discovered  the  failure  of  his  plans,  and  unhesitatingly 
ascribed  to  the  prejudices  of  the  peasantry  what  with  more 
justice  might  have  been  charged  against  his  own  unskilful- 
ness.  He  forgot  that  a  people  long  neglected  cannot  at 
once  be  won  back ;  that  confidence  is  a  plant  of  slow  growth. 
But,  more  than  all,  he  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  to  ingraft 
the  customs  and  wants  of  richer  communities  upon  a  people 
sunk  in  poverty  and  want,  to  introduce  among  them  new 
and  improved  modes  of  tillage,  to  inculcate  notions  which 
have  taken  ages  to  grow  up  to  maturity  in  more  favored 
lands,  must  be  attended  with  failure  and  disappointment. 
On  both  sides  the  elements  of  success  were  wanting.  The 
peasantry  saw  —  for,  however  strange  it  may  seem,  through 
every  phase  of  want  and  wretchedness  their  intelligence  and 
apprehension  suffer  no  impairment  —  the}' saw  his  anxiety 
to  serve  them.  They  believed  him  to  be  kind-hearted  and 
well-wishing,  but  they  knew  him  to  be  also  wrong-headed 
and  ignorant  of  the  country,  and  what  he  gained  on  the 
score  of  good  feeling  he  lost  on  the  score  of  good  sense; 
and  Paddy,  however  humble  his  lot,  however  hard  his  con- 


SOME  OF  THE  PLEASURES  OF  PROPERTY.    159 

ditioD,  has  an  innate  reverence  for  ability,  and  can  rarely 
feel  attachment  to  the  heart  where  he  has  not  felt  respect 
for  the  head.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  confession  to  make,  yet 
one  might  explain  it  without  detriment  to  the  character  of 
the  people;  but,  assuredly,  popularity  in  Ireland  would 
seem  to  depend  far  more  on  intellectual  resources  than  on 
moral  principle  and  rectitude.  Romanism  has  fostered 
this  feeling,  so  natural  is  it  to  the  devotee  to  regard  power 
and  goodness  as  inseparable,  and  to  associate  the  holiness 
of  religion  with  the  sway  and  influence  of  the  priesthood. 
If  the  tenantry  regarded  the  landlord  as  a  simple-hearted, 
crochety  old  gentleman,  with  no  harm  in  him,  the  landlord 
believed  them  to  be  almost  incurably  sunk  in  barbarism 
and  superstition.  Their  native  courtesy  in  declining  to 
accept  suggestions  they  never  meant  to  adopt  he  looked  on 
as  duplicity;  he  could  not  understand  that  the  matter-of- 
fact  sternness  of  English  expression  has  no  parallel  here; 
that  politeness,  as  they  understood  it,  has  a  claim  to  which 
truth  itself  may  be  sacrificed ;  and  he  was  ever  accepting, 
in  a  literal  sense,  what  the  people  intended  to  be  received 
with  its  accustomed  qualification. 

But  a  more  detrimental  result  followed  than  even  these. 
The  truly  well  conducted  and  respectable  portion  of  the 
tenantry  felt  ashamed  to  adopt  plans  and  notions  they  knew 
inapplicable  and  unsuited  to  their  condition;  they  therefore 
stood  aloof,  and  by  their  honest  forbearance  incurred  the 
reproach  of  obstinacy  and  barbarism;  while  the  idle,  the 
lazy,  and  the  profligate  became  converts  to  any  doctrine  or 
class  of  opinion  which  promised  an  easy  life  and  a  rich 
man's  favor.  These,  at  first  sight,  found  favor  with  him, 
as  possessing  more  intelligence  and  tractability  than  their 
neighbors,  and  for  them  cottages  were  built,  rents  abated, 
improved  stock  introduced,  and  a  hundred  devices  organized 
to  make  them  an  example  for  all  imitation.  Unhappily, 
the  conditions  of  the  contract  were  misconceived.  The 
people  believed  that  all  the  landlord  required  was  a  patient 
endurance  of  his  benevolence;  they  never  reckoned  on  any 
reciprocity  in  duty.  They  never  dreamed  that  a  Swiss 
cottage  cannot  be  left  to  the  fortunes  of  a  mud  cabin;  that 
stagnant   pools    before   the    door,    weed-grown    fields,    and 


160  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

broken  fences,  harmonize  ill  with  rural  palings,  drill  culti- 
vation, and  trim  hedges.  They  took  all  they  could  get,  but 
assuredly  they  never  understood  the  obligation  of  repay- 
ment. They  thought  (not  very  unreasonably,  perhaps), 
"It's  the  old  gentleman's  hobby  that  we  should  adopt  a 
number  of  habits  and  customs  we  were  never  used  to,  — 
live  in  strange  houses,  and  work  with  strange  tools.  Be  it 
so;  we  are  willing  to  gratify  him,"  said  they,  "but  let  him 
pay  for  his  whistle." 

He,  on  the  other  hand,  thought  they  were  greedily  adopt- 
ing what  they  only  endured,  and  deemed  all  converts  to  his 
opinion  who  lived  on  his  bounty.  Hence,  each  morning 
presented  an  array  of  the  most  worthless,  irreclaimable  of 
the  tenantry  around  his  door,  all  eagerly  seeking  to  be 
included  in  some  new  scheme  Of  regeneration,  by  which 
they  understood  three  meals  a  day  and  nothing  to  do. 

How  to  play  off  these  two  distinct  and  very  opposite 
classes,  Mr.  Sam  Wylie  knew  to  perfection ;  and  while  he 
made  it  appear  that  one  portion  of  the  tenantry,  whose 
rigid  rejection  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  doctrines  proceeded 
from  a  sturdy  spirit  of  self-confidence  and  independence, 
were  a  set  of  wild,  irreclaimable  savages,  he  softly  insinu- 
ated his  compliments  on  the  success  in  other  quarters,  while 
in  his  heart  he  well  knew  what  results  were  about  to 
happen. 

"They  're  here  now,  sir,"  said  Wylie,  as  he  glanced 
through  the  window  towards  the  lawn,  where,  with  rigid 
punctuality.  Sir  Marmaduke  each  morning  held  his  levee; 
and  where,  indeed,  a  very  strange  and  motley  crowd 
appeared. 

The  old  baronet  threw  up  the  sash,  and  as  he  did  so,  a 
general  murmur  of  blessings  and  heavenly  invocations  met 
his  ears,  —  sounds,  that  if  one  were  to  judge  from  his 
brightening  eye  and  beaming  countenance,  he  relished  well. 
No  longer,  however,  as  of  old,  suppliant  and  entreating, 
with  tremulous  voice  and  shrinking  gaze,  did  they  make 
their  advances.  These  people  were  now  enlisted  in  his 
army  of  "regenerators;"  they  were  converts  to  the  land- 
lord's manifold  theories  of  improved  agriculture,  neat  cot- 
tages,   pigsties,    dovecots,    beehives,    and    Heaven   knows 


SOME   OF  THE  PLEASURES  OF  PROPERTY.        161 

what  other  suggestive  absurdity,  ease  and  affluence  ever 
devised  to  plate  over  the  surface  of  rude  and  rugged 
misery. 

"  The  Lord  bless  your  honor  every  morning  you  rise,  't  is 
the  iligant  little  place  ye  gave  me  to  live  in.  Musha,  't  is 
happy  and  comfortable  I  do  be  every  night,  now,  barrin' 
that  the  slates  does  be  falling  betimes  —  bad  luck  to  them 
for  slates,  one  of  them  cut  little  Joe's  head  this  mornins:, 
and  I  brought  him  up  for  a  bit  of  a  plaster." 

This  was  the  address  of  a  stout,  middle-aged  woman, 
with  a  man's  greatcoat  around  her  in  lieu  of  a  cloak. 

'•  Slates  falling  —  why  does  n't  your  husband  fasten  them 
on  again?  He  said  he  was  a  handy  fellow,  and  could  do 
anything  about  a  house." 

''It  was  no  lie,  then;  Thady  Morris  is  a  good  warrant 
for  a  job  any  day,  and  if  it  was  thatch  was  on  it  —  " 

"Thatch  —  why,  woman,  I'll  have  no  thatch;  I  don't 
want  the  cabins  burned  down,  nor  will  I  have  them  the 
filthy  hovels  they  used  to  be." 

"Why  would  your  honor?  —  sure  there's  rayson  and 
sinse  agin  it,"  was  the  chorus  of  all  present,  while  the 
woman  resumed,  — 

"Well,  he  tried  that  same,  too,  your  honor,  and  if  he  did, 
by  my  sowl,  it  was  worse  for  him;  for  when  he  seen  the 
slates  going  off  every  minit  with  the  wind,  he  put  the 
harrow  on  the  top  —  " 

"The  harrow  —  put  the  harrow  on  the  roof?  " 

"Just  so;  wasn't  it  natural?  But  as  sure  as  the  wind 
riz,  down  came  the  harrow,  and  stripped  every  dirty  kippeen 
of  a  slate  away  with  it." 

"So  the  roof  is  off?"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  with  stifled 
rage. 

'"Tis  as  clean  as  my  five  fingers,  the  same  rafters,"  said 
she,  with  unmoved  gravity. 

"This  is  too  bad;  Wylie,  do  you  hear  this?"  said  the 
old  gentleman,  with  a  face  dark  with  passion. 

"Ay,"  chorused  in  some  half-dozen  friends  of  the  woman; 
"nothing  stands  the  wind  like  the  thatch." 

Wylie  whispered  some  words  to  his  master,  and  by  a  side 
gesture  motioned  to  the  woman  to  take  her  departure.     The 

VOL.    I. —  11 


162  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

hint  was  at  once  taken,  and  her  place  immediately  filled  by 
another.  This  was  a  short  little  old  fellow  in  yellow  rags, 
his  face  concealed  by  a  handkerchief,  on  removing  which 
he  discovered  a  countenance  that  bore  no  earthly  resem- 
blance to  that  of  a  human  being;  the  eyes  were  entirely 
concealed  by  swollen  masses  of  cheek  and  eyelid,  —  the 
nose  might  have  been  eight  noses,  —  and  the  round,  im- 
mense lips,  and  the  small  aperture  between,  looked  like  the 
opening  in  a  ballot-box. 

"Who  is  this?  what's  the  matter  here?"  said  Sir  Mar^ 
maduke,  as  he  stared  in  mingled  horror  and  astonishment 
at  the  object  before  him. 

"Faix,  ye  may  well  ax,"  said  the  little  man,  in  a  thick, 
guttural  voice.  "  Sorra  one  of  the  neighbors  knew  me  this 
morning.     I'm  Tim  M'Garrey,   of  the  cross-roads." 

"What  has  happened  to  you,  then?"  asked  Sir  Marma- 
duke,  somewhat  ruffled  by  the  sturdy  tone  of  the  ragged 
fellow's  address. 

"'T  is  your  own  doing,  then,  — divil  a  less;  you  may  be 
proud  of  your  work." 

"  My  doing!  —  how  do  you  dare  to  say  so?  " 

"'Tis  no  darin'  at  all;  'tis  thrue,  as  I'm  here.  Them 
cursed  beehives  you  made  me  take  home  wid  me,  I  put 
them  in  a  corner  of  the  house,  and,  by  bad  luck,  it  was  the 
pig's  corner,  and,  sorra  bit,  but  she  rooted  them  out  and 
upset  them,  and  with  that  the  varmint  fell  upon  us  all,  and 
it  was  two  hours  before  we  killed  them ;  divil  such  a  fight 
ever  ye  seen.  Peggy  had  the  beetle,  and  I  the  griddle,  for 
flattening  them  agin  the  wall;  and  maybe  we  did  n't  work 
hard,  while  the  childer  was  roarin'  and  bawlin'  for  the  bare 
life." 

"Gracious  mercy!  could  this  be  credited?  Could  any 
man  conceive  barbarism  like  this?"  cried  Sir  Marma- 
duke,  as,  with  uplifted  hands,  he  stood  overwhelmed  with 
amazement. 

W^'lie  again  whispered  something,  and  again  telegraphed 
to  the  applicant  to  move  off;  but  the  little  man  stood  his 
ground  and  continued,  "'Twas  a  heifer  you  gave  Tom 
Lenahan,  and  it's  a  dhroll  day  the  M'Garreys  war  n't  as 
good  as  the  Lenahans,  to  say  we  'd  have  nothing  but  bees, 
and  them  was  to  get  a  dacent  baste !  " 


SOME   OF  THE   PLEASURES  OF  PROPERTY.         163 

"Stand  aside,  sir,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke;  "Wylie  has 
got  my  orders  about  you.     AVho  is  this  ?  " 

''Faix,  me,  sir, — Andrew  Maher.  I'm  come  to  give 
your  honor  the  key;  I  couldn't  stop  there  any  longer." 

"What!  not  stay  in  that  comfortable  house,  with  the 
neat  shop  I  had  built  and  stocked  for  you?  What  does 
this  mean?  " 

"'Tis  just  that,  then,  your  honor:  the  house  is  a  nate 
little  place,  and  barrin'  the  damp,  and  the  little  grate,  that 
won't  burn  turf  at  all,  one  might  do  well  enough  in  it;  but 
the   shop  is  the  divil  entirely." 

"How  so?  —  what 's  wrong  about  it?  " 

"Everything's  wrong  about  it.  First  and  foremost,  your 
honor,  the  neighbors  has  no  money ;  and  though  they  might 
do  mighty  well  for  want  of  tobacco,  and  spirits,  and  bohea, 
and  candles,  and  soap,  and  them  trifles,  as  long  as  they 
never  came  near  them,  throth  they  could  n't  have  them 
there  f ornint  their  noses  without  wishing  for  a  taste ;  and 
so  one  comes  in  for  a  pound  of  sugar,  and  another  wants  a 
ha'porth  of  nails,  or  a  piece  of  naygar-head,  or  an  ounce  of 
starch, — and  divil  a  word  they  have,  but  'Put  it  in  the 
book,  Andy.'  By  my  conscience,  it 's  a  quare  book  would 
hould  it  all." 

"But  they  '11  pay  in  time,  — they  '11  pay  when  they  sell 
the  crops." 

"Bother!  I  ax  your  honor's  pardon,  I  was  manin' 
they  'd  see  me  far  enough  first.  Sure,  when  they  go  to 
market,  they  '11  have  the  rint,  and  the  tithe,  and  the  taxes ; 
and  when  that's  done,  and  they  get  a  sack  of  seed  potatoes 
for  next  year,  I  'd  like  to  know  where  's  the  money  that 's 
to  come  to  me?  " 

"Is  this  true,  Wylie? —  are  they  as  poor  as  this?"  asked 
Sir  Marmaduke. 

Wylie 's  answer  was  still  a  whispered  one. 

"Well,"  said  Andy,  with  a  sigh,  "there's  the  key,  any 
way.  I  'd  rather  be  tachin'  the  gaffers  again  than  be  keep- 
ing the  same  shop." 

These  complaints  were  followed  by  others,  differing  in 
kind  and  complexion,  but  all  agreeing  in  the  violence  with 
which  they  were  urged,   and  all  inveighing  against  "the 


164  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

improvements  "  Sir  Marmaduke  was  so  interested  in  carry- 
ing forward.  To  hear  them,  you  would  suppose  that  the 
grievances  suggested  by  poverty  and  want  w^ere  more  in 
unison  with  comfort  and  enjoyment  than  all  the  appliances 
wealth  can  bestow ;  and  that  the  privations  to  which  habit 
has  inured  us  are  sources  of  greater  happiness  than  we 
often  feel  in  the  use  of  unrestricted  liberty. 

Far  from  finding  any  contented,  Sir  Marmaduke  only 
saw  a  few  among  the  number  willing  to  endure  his  boun- 
ties, as  the  means  of  obtaining  other  concessions  they 
desired  more  ardently.  They  would  keep  their  cabins 
clean  if  anything  was  to  be  made  by  it;  they'd  weed  their 
potatoes  if  Sir  Marmaduke  would  only  offer  a  price  for  the 
weeds.  In  fact,  they  were  ready  to  engage  in  any  arduous 
pursuit  of  cleanliness,  decency,  and  propriety,  but  it  must 
be  for  a  consideration.  Otherwise,  they  saw  no  reason 
for  encountering  labor  which  brought  no  requital ;  and  the 
real  benefits  offered  to  them  came  so  often  associated  with 
newfangled  and  absurd  innovations,  that  both  became 
involved  in  the  same  disgrace,  and  both  sank  in  the  same 
ridicule  together.  These  were  the  refuse  of  the  tenantry; 
for  we  have  seen  that  the  independent  feeling  of  the  better 
class  held  them  aloof  from  all  the  schemes  of  "improve- 
ment "  which  the  others,  by  participating  in,  contaminated. 

Sir  Marmaduke  might,  then,  be  pardoned  if  he  felt  some 
sinking  of  the  heart  at  his  failure;  and,  although  encour- 
aged by  his  daughter  to  persevere  in  his  plan  to  the  end. 
more  than  once  he  was  on  the  brink  of  abandoning  the  field 
in  discomfiture,  and  confessing  that  the  game  was  above 
his  skill.  Had  he  taken  but  one-half  the  pains  to  learn 
something  of  national  character  that  he  bestow^ed  on  his 
absurd  efforts  to  fashion  it  to  his  liking,  his  success  might 
have  been  different.  He  would,  at  least,  have  known  how 
to  distinguish  between  the  really  deserving  and  the  un- 
worthy recipients  of  his  bounty,  —  between  the  honest  and 
independent  peasant,  earning  his  bread  by  the  sweat  of  his 
brow,  and  the  miserable  dependent,  only  seeking  a  life  of 
indolence,  at  any  sacrifice  of  truth  or  character;  and  even 
this  knowledge,  small  as  it  may  seem,  will  go  far  in  appre- 
ciating the  difficulties  which    attend  all  attempts  at   Irish 


SOME  OF  THE  PLEASURES  OF  PROPERTY.    165 

social  improvement,  and  explain  much  of  the  success  or 
failure  observable  in  different  parts  of  the  country.  But 
Sir  Marmaduke  fell  into  the  invariable  error  of  his  coun- 
trymen: he  first  suffered  himself  to  be  led  captive  by 
"blarney,"  and  when  heartily  sick  of  the  deceitfulness  and 
trickery  of  those  who  employed  it,  coolly  sat  down  with  the 
conviction  that  there  was  no  truth  in  the  laud. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE    FOREIGN    LETTER. 

The  arrival  of  a  post-letter  at  the  O'Donoghue  house  was 
an  occurrence  of  suflScient  rarity  to  create  some  excitement 
in  the  household;  and  many  a  surmise,  as  to  what  new 
misfortune  hung  over  the  family,  was  hazarded  between 
Mrs.  Branaghan  and  Kerry  O'Leary,  as  the  latter  poised 
and  balanced  the  epistle  in  his  hand,  as  though  its  weight 
and  form  might  assist  him  in  his  divination. 

After  having  conned  over  all  the  different  legal  processes 
which  he  deemed  might  be  conveyed  in  such  a  shape,  and 
conjured  up  in  his  imagination  a  whole  army  of  sheriffs, 
sub-sheriffs,  bailiffs,  and  drivers,  of  which  the  ominous 
letter  should  prove  the  forerunner,  he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh 
at  the  gloomy  future  his  forebodings  had  created,  and 
slowly  ascended  towards  his  master's  bedroom. 

"How  is  Herbert?"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  as  he  heard 
the  footsteps  beside  his  bed,  for  he  had  been  dreaming  of 
the  boy  a  few  minutes  previous.  "Who  is  that?  Ah! 
Kerry.     Well,  how  is  he  to-day  ?  " 

"Troth,  there  's  no  great  change  to  spake  of,"  said  Kerry, 
who,  not  having  made  any  inquiry  himself,  and  never 
expecting  to  have  been  questioned  on  the  subject,  preferred 
this  safe  line  of  reply,  as  he  deemed  it,  to  a  confession  of 
his  ignorance. 

"Did  he  sleep  well,  Kerry?  " 

"Oh,  for  the  matter  of  the  sleep  we  won't  boast  of  it. 
But  here  's  a  letter  for  your  honor,  come  by  the  post." 

"Leave  it  on  the  bed,  and  tell  me  about  the  boy." 

"Faix,  there's  nothing  particular,  then,  to  tell  your 
honor;  sometimes  he  'd  be  one  way,  sometimes  another,  — 


THE  FOREIGN  LETTER.  167 

and  more  times  the  same  way  again.  That 's  the  way  he  'd 
be  all  the  night  through." 

The  O'Donoghue  pondered  for  a  second  or  two,  endeavor- 
ing to  frame  some  distinct  notion  from  these  scanty  mate- 
rials,  and  then  said,  — 

"Send  Master  Mark  to  me."  At  the  same  time  he  drew 
aside  the  curtain,  and  broke  the  seal  of  the  letter.  The 
first  few  lines,  however,  seemed  to  satisfy  his  curiosity, 
although  the  epistle  was  written  in  a  close  hand,  and 
extended  over  three  sides  of  the  paper;  and  he  threw  it 
carelessly  on  the  bed,  and  lay  down  again  once  more. 
During  all  this  time,  how^ever,  Kerry  managed  to  remain  in 
the  room,  and,  while  affecting  to  arrange  clothes  and  furni- 
ture, keenly  scrutinized  the  features  of  his  master.  It  was 
of  no  use,  however.  The  old  man's  looks  were  as  apa- 
thetic as  usual,  and  he  seemed  already  to  have  forgotten 
the  missive  Kerry  had  endowed  with  so  many  terrors 
and  misfortunes. 

"Herbert  has  passed  a  favorable  night,"  said  Mark, 
entering  a  few  moments  after.  "The  fever  seems  to  have 
left  him,  and,  except  for  debility,  I  suppose  there  is  little 
to  ail  him.     What !  —  a  letter  ?     Who  is  this  from  ?  " 

"From  Kate,"  said  the  old  man,  listlessly.  "I  got  as  far 
as  'My  dear  uncle;  '  the  remainder  must  await  a  better 
light,  and,  mayhap,  sharper  eyesight  too,  —  for  the  girl 
has  picked  up  this  new  mode  of  scribbling,  which  is  almost 
unintelligible  to  me." 

As  the  O'Donoghue  was  speaking,  the  young  man  had 
approached  the  window,  and  was  busily  perusing  the  letter. 
As  he  read,  his  face  changed  color  more  than  once.  Break- 
ing off,  he  said,  — 

"You  don't  know,  then,  what  news  we  have  here?  More 
embarrassment  —  ay,  by  Jove !  and  a  heavier  one  than  even 
it  seems  at  first  sight.  The  French  armies,  it  appears,  are 
successful  all  over  the  Low  Countries,  and  city  after  city 
falling  into  their  possession ;  and  so  the  convents  are  break- 
ing up,  and  the  Sacre  Coeur,  where  Kate  is,  has  set  free  its 
inmates,  who  are  returning  to  their  friends.  She  comes 
here." 

"What!    here?"  said   the   O'Donoghue,    with   some   evi- 


168  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

dence  of  doubt  at  intelligence  so  strange  and  unexpected. 
"Why,  Mark,  my  boy,  that 's  impossible,  — the  house  is  a 
ruin;  we  haven't  a  room;  we  have  no  servants,  and  have 
nothing  like  accommodation  for  the  girl." 

"Listen  to  this,  then,"  said  Mark,  as  he  read  from  the 
letter.  "  'You  may  then  conceive,  my  dear  old  papa,  —  for 
I  must  call  you  the  old  name  again,  now  that  we  are  to 
meet,  —  how  happy  I  am  to  visit  Carrignacurra  once  more. 
I  persuade  myself  I  remember  the  old  beech  wood  in  the 
glen,  and  the  steep  path  beside  the  waterfall,  and  the 
wooden  railings  to  guard  against  the  precipice.  Am  I  not 
right?  And  there  's  an  ash-tree  over  the  pool,  lower  down. 
Cousin  Mark  climbed  it  to  pluck  the  berries  for  me,  and 
fell  in,  too.     There's  memory  for  you!'" 

"She'll  be  puzzled  to  find  the  wood  now,"  said  the 
O'Donoghue,  with  a  sad  attempt  at  a  smile.  "Go  on, 
Mark." 

"It's  all  the  same  kind  of  thing;  she  speaks  of  Molly 
Cooney's  cabin,  and  the  red  boat-house,  and  fifty  things 
that  are  gone  many  a  day  ago.  Strange  enough,  she  remem- 
bers what  I  myself  have  long  since  forgotten.  'How  I  long 
for  my  own  little  blue  bedroom  that  looked  out  on  the 
Keim-an-eigh!  —  '  " 

"There,  Mark  —  don't  read  any  more,  my  lad.  Poor 
dear  Kate !  —  what  would  she  think  of  the  place  now  ?  " 

"The  thing  is  impossible,"  said  Mark,  sternly.  "The 
girl  has  got  a  hundred  fancies  and  tastes  unsuited  to  our 
rude  life ;  her  French  habits  would  ill  agree  with  our  bar- 
barism. You  must  write  to  your  cousin,  —  that  old  Mrs. 
Bedingfield;  if  that 's  her  name.  She  must  take  her  for  the 
present,  at  least;  she  offered  it  once  before." 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  with  an  energy  he  had  not  used 
till  now,  "she  did,  and  I  refused.  My  poor  brother  detested 
that  woman,  and  would  never,  had  he  lived,  have  intrusted 
his  daughter  to  her  care.  If  she  likes  it,  the  girl  shall 
make  this  her  home.  My  poor  Harry's  child  shall  not  ask 
twice  for  a  shelter  while  I  have  one  to  offer  her." 

"Have  you  thought,  sir,  how  long  you  may  be  able  to 
extend  the  hospitality  you  speak  of?  Is  this  house  now 
your  own,  that  you  can  make  a  proffer  of  it  to  any  one  ?  — 


THE  FOREIGN  LETTER.  169 

and  if  it  were,  is  it  here,  within  these  damp,  discolored 
walls,  with  ruin  without  and  within,  that  you  'd  desire  a 
guest, — and  such  a  guest?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  boy?  " 

"  I  mean  what  I  say.  The  girl,  educated  in  the  midst  of 
luxury,  pampered  and  flattered;  we  heard  that  from  the 
abbe,  —  what  a  favorite  she  was  there,  and  how  naturally 
she  assumed  airs  of  command  and  superiority  over  the  girls 
of  her  own  age,  —  truly,  if  penance  were  the  object,  the 
notion  is  not  a  bad  one." 

"  I  say  it  again :  this  is  her  home.  I  grieve  it  should  be 
so  rude  a  one,  but  I  '11  never  refuse  to  let  her  share  it." 

"Nor  would  I,"  muttered  Mark,  gloomily,  "if  it  suited 
either  her  habits  or  her  tastes.  Let  her  come,  however;  a 
week's  experience  will  do  more  to  undeceive  her  than  if  we 
wrote  letters  for  a  twelvemonth." 

"You  must  write  to  her,  Mark;  you  must  tell  her  that 
matters  have  not  gone  so  well  with  us  latterly,  — that  she  '11 
see  many  changes  here;  but  mind  you  say  how  happy  we 
are  to  receive  her." 

"  She  can  have  her  choice  of  blue  bedrooms,  too,  —  shall  I 
say  that?"  said  Mark,  almost  savagely.  "The  damp  has 
given  them  the  proper  tinge  for  her  fancy;  and  as  to  the 
view  she  speaks  of,  assuredly  there  is  nothing  to  balk  it. 
The  window  has  fallen  out  many  a  long  day  ago  that  looked 
on  Keim-an-eigh." 

"How  can  you  torture  me  this  way,  boy?  "  said  the  old 
man,  with  a  look  of  imploring,  to  which  his  white  hairs 
and  aged  features  gave  a  most  painful  expression.  But 
Mark  turned  away,   and  made  no  answer. 

"My  uncle,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "must  answer  this 
epistle.  Letter-writing  is  no  burden  to  him.  In  fact,  I 
believe  he  rather  likes  it;  so  here  goes  to  do  him  a  favor. 
It  is  seldom  the  occasion  presents  itself." 

It  was  not  often  that  Mark  O'Donoghue  paid  a  visit  to 
Sir  Archibald  in  his  chamber;  and  the  old  man  received 
him  as  he  entered  with  all  the  show  of  courtesy  he  would 
have  extended  to  a  stranger,  —  a  piece  of  attention  which 
was  very  far,  indeed,  from  relieving  Mark  of  any  portion 
of  his  former  embarrassment. 

"I  have  brought  you  a  letter,   sir,"  said  he,  almost  ere 


170  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

he  took  his  seat,  —  "a  letter  which  my  father  would  thank 
you  to  reply  to.  It  is  from  my  cousin  Kate,  who  is  about 
to  return  to  Ireland  and  take  up  her  abode  here." 

"Ye  dinna  mean  she's  coming  here,  to  Carrignacurra  ?  " 

"It  is  even  so!  though  I  don't  wonder  at  your  finding  it 
hard  of  belief." 

"It's  mair  than  that, — it's  far  mair;  it's  downright 
incredible." 

"  I  thought  so,  too ;  but  my  father  cannot  agree  with  me. 
He  will  not  believe  that  this  old  barrack  is  not  a  baronial 
castle;  and  persists  in  falling  back  on  what  is  past,  rather 
than  look  on  the  present,  not  to  speak  of  the  future." 

"But  she  canna  live  here,  Mark,"  said  Sir  Archy,  his 
mind  ever  dwelling  on  the  great  question  at  issue. 
"There  's  no  a  spot  in  the  whole  house  she  could  inhabit. 
I  ken  something  of  these  French  damsels  and  their  ways ; 
and  the  strangers  that  go  there  for  education  are  a'  worse 
than  the  natives.  I  mind  the  time  I  was  in  Paris  with  his 
I^oyal  —  "  Sir  Archy  coughed,  and  reddened  up,  and  let 
fall  his  snuff-box,  spilling  all  the  contents  on  the  floor. 
"Gude  save  us,  here  's  a  calamity!  It  was  real  macabaw, 
and  cost  twa  shillings  an  ounce.  I  maun  even  see  if  I 
canna  scrape  it  up  wi'  a  piece  of  paper;"  and  so  he  set 
himself  diligently  to  glean  up  the  scattered  dust,  muttering, 
all  the  time,   maledictions  on  his  bad  luck. 

Mark  never  moved  nor  spoke  the  entire  time,  but  sat  with 
the  open  letter  in  his  hand,  patiently  awaiting  the  resump- 
tion of  the  discussion. 

"Weel,  weel,"  exclaimed  Sir  Archy,  as  he  resumed  his 
seat  once  more ;  "  let  us  see  the  epistle,  and  perhaps  we  may 
find  some  clew  to  put  her  off." 

"My  father  insists  on  her  coming,"  said  Mark,  sternly. 

"So  he  may,  lad,"  replied  Sk  Archy;  "but  she  may  hae 
her  ain  reasons  for  declining;  dinna  ye  see  that?  This 
place  is  a  ruin.  Wha  's  to  say  it  is  no  undergoing  a  repair; 
that  the  roof  is  off,  and  will  not  be  on  for  sax  months  to 
come.  The  country,  too,  is  in  a  vera  disturbed  state. 
Folks  are  talking  in  a  suspicious  way." 

Mark  thought  of  the  midnight  march  he  had  witnessed, 
but  said  nothing. 

"Tiiere  's  a  fever,  besides,  in  the  house,  and  wha  can  tell 


THE  FOREIGN  LETTER.  171 

the  next  to  tak'  it.  The  Lord  be  mercifu'  to  us!  "  added 
he,  gravely,  as  if  the  latter  thought  approached  somewhat 
too  close  on  a  temptation  of  Providence. 

"If  she  's  like  what  I  remember  her  as  a  child,"  replied 
Mark,  "3'our  plan  would  be  a  bad  one  for  its  object.  Tell 
her  the  place  is  a  ruin,  and  she  'd  give  the  world  to  see  it 
for  bare  curiosity ;  say  there  was  a  likelihood  of  a  rebellion, 
and  she  would  risk  her  life  to  be  near  it;  and  as  for  a 
fever,  we  never  were  able  to  keep  her  out  of  the  cabins 
when  there  was  sickness  going.  Faith,  I  believe  it  was  the 
danger,  and  not  the  benevolence,  of  the  act  charmed  her." 

"You  are  no  far  wrong.  I  mind  her  weel;  she  was  a 
saucy  cutty ;  and  I  canna  forget  the  morning  she  gave  me 
a  bunch  o'  thistles  on  my  birthday,  and  ca'ed  it  a  'Scotch 
bouquey. '  " 

"You  had  better  read  the  letter,  in  any  case,"  said  Mark, 
as  he  presented  the  epistle.  Sir  Archy  took  it,  and  perused 
it  from  end  to  end  without  a  word ;  then,  laying  it  open  on 
his  knee,  he  said,  — 

"The  lassie's  heart  is  no  far  wrang,  Mark,  depend  upon 
it.  Few  call  up  the  simple  memories  o'  childish  days  if 
they  have  no  retained  some  of  the  guileless  spirit  that  ani- 
mated them.  I  wad  like  to  see  her  mysel',"  said  he,  after 
a  pause.  "But  what  have  we  here  in  the  postscript?" 
And  he  read  aloud  the  following  lines :  — 

"  'I  have  too  good  a  recollection  of  a  Carrignacurra 
household  to  make  any  apology  for  adding  one  to  the  num- 
ber below  stairs,  in  the  person  of  my  maid  Mademoiselle 
Hortense,  from  whose  surprise  and  astonishment  at  our 
Irish  mountains  I  anticipate  a  rich  treat.  She  is  a  true 
Parisian,  who  cannot  believe  in  anything  outside  the 
Boulevards.  What  will  she  think  of  Mrs.  Branaghan  and 
Kerry  O'Leary?  and  what  will  they  think  of  her?' 

"Lord  save  us,  Mark,  this  is  an  awfu'  business;  a 
French  waiting-woman  here!  Why,  she  might  as  weel 
bring  a  Bengal  tiger.  I  protest  I  'd  rather  see  the  one  than 
the  other." 

"She'll  not  stay  long;  make  your  mind  easy  about  her, 
—  nor  will  Kate  either,  if  she  need  such  an  attendant." 

"True  enough,  Mark;  we  maun  let  the  malady  cure  itseP; 


172  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

and  so,  I  suppose,  the  lassie  must  even  see  the  nakedness 
o'  the  land  wi'  her  ain  eyes,  though  I  'd  just  as  soon  we 
could  'put  the  cover  on  the  parritch,'  as  the  laird  said,  'and 
make  the  fules  think  it  brose.'  It's  no  ower  pleasant  to 
expose  one's  poverty." 

"Then  you'll  write  the  letter,"  said  Mark,  rising,  "and 
we  must  do  what  we  can  in  the  way  of  preparation.  The 
time  is  short  enough,  too,  for  that  letter  was  written  almost 
a  month  ago.     She  might  arrive  this  very  week." 

As  he  spoke,  the  shuffling  sounds  of  feet  were  heard  in 
the  corridor  outside;  the  young  man  sprang  to  the  door 
and  looked  out,  and  just  caught  sight  of  Kerry  O'Leary, 
with  a  pair  of  boots  under  his  arm,  descending  the  stairs. 

"That  fellow  Kerry  —  listening,  as  usual,"  said  Mark. 
"I  heard  him  at  my  door  about  a  fortnight  since,  when  I 
was  talking  to  Herbert,  and  I  sent  a  bullet  through  the 
panel;  I  thought  it  might  cui'e  him." 

"I  wonder  it  did  na  kill  him!  "  exclaimed  M'Nab,  in 
horror. 

"No,  no,  my  hand  is  too  steady  for  that.  I  aimed  at 
least  two  inches  above  his  head ;  it  might  have  grazed  his 
hair." 

"By  my  word,  I  '11  no  play  the  eavesdropper  wi'  you, 
Mark ;  or,  at  least,  I  'd  like  to  draw  the  charge  o'  your  pistols 
first." 

"She  can  have  my  room,"  said  Mark,  not  heeding  the 
speech.  "I  '11  take  that  old  tower  they  call  the  guard-room; 
I  fancy  I  shall  not  be  dispossessed  for  a  considerable  time.'* 
And  the  youth  left  the  chamber  to  look  after  the  arrange- 
ments he  spoke  of. 

"'Tis  what  I  tould  you,"  said  Kerry,  as  he  drew  his 
stool  beside  the  kitchen  fire;  "I  was  right  enough,  she's 
coming  back  again  to  live  here.  I  was  listening  at  the 
door,  and  heerd  it  all." 

"And  she  's  laving  the  blessed  nunnery!  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Branaghan,  with  a  holy  horror  in  her  countenance;  "desart- 
ing  the  elegant  place,  with  the  priests,  and  monks,  and 
friars,  to  come  here  again,  in  the  middle  of  every  wicked- 
ness and  divilment  —  ochone!  ochone!" 

"  What  wickedness  and  what  divilment  are  you  spaking 


THE  FOREIGN  LETTER.  173 

about  ? "  said  Kerry,  indignantly,  at  the  aspersion  thus  east 
on  the  habits  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Branaghan  actually  started  at  the  bare  idea  of  a 
contradiction,  and  turned  on  him  a  look  of  fiery  wrath  as 
she  said,  — • 

"Be  my  conscience  you  're  bould  to  talk  that  way  to  me! 
—  What  wickedness!  Isn't  horse-racing,  card-playing, 
raffiing,  wickedness?  Isn't  drinking  and  swearing  wicked- 
ness? Isn't  it  wickedness  to  kill  three  sheep  a  week,  and 
a  cow  a  fortnight,  to  feed  a  set  of  dirty  spalpeens  of  grooms 
and  stable  chaps?  Is  n't  it  wickedness —  Botheration  to 
you,  but  I  wouldn't  be  losing  my  time  talking  to  you! 
When  was  one  of  ye  at  his  duties  ?  Answer  me  that.  How 
much  did  one  of  ye  pay  at  Ayster  or  Christmas,  these  ten 
years?  Signs  on  it.  Father  Luke  hasn't  a  word  for  ye 
when  he  comes  here;  he  trates  ye  with  contimpt." 

Kerry  was  abashed  and  terrified.  He  little  knew  when 
he  pulled  up  the  sluice-gate  the  torrent  that  would  flow 
down;  and  now  would  have  made  any  "amende"  to  estab- 
lish a  truce  again.  But  Mrs.  Branaghan  was  a  woman, 
and,  having  seen  the  subjugation  of  her  adversary,  her  last 
thought  was  mercy.  * 

"Wickedness,  indeed!  It's  fifty  years  out  of  purgatory, 
sorra  less,  to  live  ten  years  here,  and  see  what  goes  on." 

"Divil  a  lie  in  it,"  chimed  in  Kerry,  meekly;  "there's 
no  denying  a  word  you  say." 

"I'd  like  to  see  who'd  dare  deny  it;  and,  signs  on  it, 
there  's  a  curse  on  the  place  —  nothing  thrives  in  it." 

"Faix,  then,  ye  mustn't  say  that,  anyhow,"  said  Kerry, 
insinuatingly.  "  You  have  no  rayson  to  spake  again  it. 
'T  was  Tuesday  week  last  I  heerd  Father  Luke  say,  —  it 
was  to  myself  he  said  it, — 'How  is  Mrs.  Branaghan, 
Kerry?  '  says  he.  'She  's  well  and  hearty,  your  reverence,' 
says  I.  'I  '11  tell  you  what  she  is,  Kerry,*  says  he:  'she  's 
looking  just  as  I  knew  her  five-and-thirty  years  ago ;  and  a 
comelier,  dacenter  woman  was  n't  in  the  three  baronies.  I 
remember  well,*  says  he,  'I  seen  her  at  the  fair  of  Killarney, 
and  she  had  a  cap  with  red  ribbons. '  Had  n*t  ye  a  cap 
with  red  ribbons  in  it  ?  " 

A  nod  was  the  response. 


174  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

"True  for  him,  ye  see  be  didn't  forget  it;  and  says  he, 
'She  took  the  shine  out  of  the  fair;  she  could  give  seven 
pounds  and  half  a  distance  to  ere  a  girl  there,  and  beat  her 
after-  hj  a  neck.'  " 

"What's  that  3-e  're  saying?"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan,  who 
did  n't  comprehend  the  figurative  language  of  the  turf,  par- 
ticularly when  coming  from  Father  Luke's  lips. 

"I  'm  saying  ye  were  the  purtiest  woman  that  walked  the 
fair- green,"  said  Kerry,  correcting  his  phraseology. 

"Father  Luke  was  a  smart  little  man  then  himself,  and 
had  a  nate  leg  and  foot." 

''Killarney  was  a  fine  place,  I'm  tould,"  said  Kerry, 
with  a  dexterous  shift  to  change  the  topic.  "I  was  n't 
often  there  mj'self,  but  I  heerd  it  was  the  iligant  fair 
entirely." 

"So  it  was,"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan;  "there  never  was  the 
kind  of  sport  and  divarsion  was  n't  there.  It  begun  on  a 
Monday,  and  went  through  the  week ;  and  short  enough  the 
time  was.  There  was  dancing,  and  fighting,  and  singing, 
and  'stations  '  up  to  Aghadoe,  and  down  again  on  the  bare 
knees,  and  a  pilgrimage  to  the  holy  well,  —  three  times 
round  that,  maybe  after  a  jig  two  hours  long;  and  there 
was  a  dwarf  that  tould  fortunes,  and  a  friar  that  sould 
gospels  agin  fever  and  fallin'  sickness,  and  ballad-singers, 
and  plaj^-actors.  Musha,  there  never  was  the  like  of  it." 
And  in  this  strain  did  she  pour  forth  a  flood  of  impassioned 
eloquence  on  the  recollection  of  those  carnal  pleasures  and 
enjoyments  which,  but  a  few  minutes  before,  she  had  con- 
demned so  rigidly  in  others,  nor  was  it  till  at  the  very 
close  of  her  speech  that  she  suddenly  perceived  how  she  had 
wandered  from  her  text;  then,  with  a  heavy  groan,  she 
muttered,  "Ayeh!  we  're  sinful  craytures,  the  best  of  us." 

Kerry  responded  to  the  sentiment  with  a  fac-simile  sigh, 
and  the  peace  was  ratified. 

"You  wouldn't  believe,  now,  what  Miss  Kate  is  bringing 
over  with  her;  faix,   you  wouldn't  believe  it." 

"Maybe  a  monke}',"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan,  who  had  a 
vague  notion  that  France  lay  somewhere  within  the  tropics. 

"'Worse  nor  that." 

"Is  it  a  bear?  "  asked  she  again. 


THE  FOREIGN  LETTER.  175 

*'No;  but  a  French  maid,  to  dress  lier  hair,  and  powder 
her,   and  put  patches  on  her  face." 

"Whisht,  I  tell  you,"  cried  Mrs.  Branaghan,  '"and  don't 
be  talking  that  way.  Miss  Kate  was  never  the  one  to  turn 
to  the  likes  of  them  things." 

"'T  is  truth  I  'm  telling  ye,  then;  I  heerd  it  all  between 
the  master  and  Master  Mark,  and  afterwards  with  ould  Sir 
Archy,  and  the  three  of  them  is  in  a  raal  fright  about  the 
maid;  they  say  she'll  be  the  divil  for  impidence." 

"Will  she,  then!  "  said  Mrs.  Branaghan,  with  an  eye 
glistening  in  anticipation  of  battle. 

"The  never  a  day's  peace  or  ease  we  're  to  have  again, 
when  she  's  here;  't  is  what  the  master  says.  'I  pity  poor 
Mrs.  Branaghan,'  says  he;  'she's  a  quiet  crayture  that 
won't  take  her  own  part,   and  — '  " 

"Won't  I?     Be  my  conscience,  we  '11  soon  see  that." 

"Them's  his  words;  'and  if  Kerry  and  she  don't  lay 
their  heads  together  to  make  the  place  too  hot  for  her, 
she'll  bully  the  pair  of  them.'  " 

"Lave  it  to  myself,  —  lave  it  to  me  alone,  Kerry 
O'Leary." 

"I  was  thinking  that  same,  ma'am,"  said  Kerry,  with  a 
droll  leer  as  he  spoke;  "I  'd  take  the  odds  on  you  any  day, 
and  never  ask  the  name  of  the  other  horse." 

"I  '11  lay  the  mark  of  my  fingers  on  her  av  she  says 
^pays,'  "  said  Mrs.  Branaghan,  with  an  energy  that  looked 
like  truth. 

Meanwhile,  Kerry,  perceiving  that  her  temper  was  up, 
spared  nothing  to  aggravate  her  passion,  retailing  every 
possible  and  impossible  affront  the  new  visitor  might  pass 
off  on  her,  and  expressing  the  master's  sorrows  at  the 
calamities  awaiting  her. 

"If  she  isn't  frightened  out  of  the  country  at  once, 
there  's  no  help  for  it,"  said  he,  at  last.  "I  have  a  notion 
myself,   but  sure,   maybe  it 's  a  bad  one." 

"What  is  it,  then?    Spake  it  out  free." 

"'Tis  just  to  wait  for  the  chaise, — she'll  come  in  a 
chaise,  it's  likely  —  " 

But  what  was  Kerry's  plan,  neither  Mrs  Branaghan  nor 
the  reader  are  destined  to  hear;  for  at  that  moment  a  loud 


176  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

summons  at  the  hall  door,  a  very  unusual  sound,  announced 
the  arrival  of  a  stranger.  Kerry,  therefore,  had  barely  time 
for  a  hasty  toilet  with  a  pocket-comb,  before  a  small  frag- 
ment of  looking-glass  he  carried  in  his  pocket,  as  he  has- 
tened to  receive  the  visitor. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

KATE       O'dONOGHUE. 

Before  Kerry  O'Leary  had  reached  the  hall,  the  object 
around  whose  comiug  all  his  schemes  revolved  was  already 
in  her  uncle's  arms. 

"  My  dear,  dear  Kate,"  said  the  old  man,  as  he  embraced 
her  again  and  again,  while  she,  overcome  by  a  world  of  con- 
flicting emotions,  concealed  her  face  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  This  is  Mark,  my  dearest  girl,  —  Cousin  Mark." 

The  gM  looked  up,  and  fixed  her  large,  full  eyes  upon  the 
countenance  of  the  young  man,  as,  in  an  attitude  of  bashful 
hesitation,  he  stood  uncertain  how  far  the  friendship  of 
former  days  warranted  his  advances.  She,  too,  seemed 
equally  confused ;  and  when  she  held  out  her  hand,  and  he 
took  it  half  coldly,  the  meeting  augured  but  poorly  for 
warmth  of  heart  on  either  side. 

"  And  Herbert,  —  where  is  he?  "  cried  she,  eagerly,  hoping 
to  cover  the  chilling  reception  by  the  inquiry;  "and  my 
uncle  Archy  —  " 

"  Is  here  to  answer  for  himsel',"  said  M'Nab,  quietly,  as 
he  came  rapidly  forward  and  kissed  her  on  either  cheek; 
and,  with  an  arm  leaning  on  each  of  the  old  men,  she  walked 
forward  to  the  drawing-room. 

"And  are  you  alone,  my  dear  child,  —  have  you  come 
alone?"  said  the  O'Donoghue. 

"  Even  so,  papa.  My  attached  and  faithful  Hortense  left 
me  at  Bristol.  Sea-sickness  became  stronger  than  affection. 
She  had  a  dream,  besides,  that  she  was  lost,  devoured  or 
carried  off  by  a  merman,  —  I  forget  what.  And  the  end  was, 
she  refused  to  go  farther,  and  did  her  best  to  persuade  me  to 
the  same  opinion.  She  did  n't  remember  that  I  had  sent  on 
my  effects,  and  that  my  heart  was  here  already." 

VOL.  I.  — 12 


178  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

*'My  own  dearest  child,"  said  O'Donoghue,  as  he  pressed 
her  hand  fervently  between  his  own. 

"But  how  have  ye  journeyed  by  yoursel'?"  said  Sir 
Archy,  as  he  gazed  on  the  slight  and  delicate  figure  before 
him. 

''Wonderfully  well,  uncle.  During  the  voyage  every  one 
was  most  polite  and  attentive  to  me.  There  was  a  handsome 
young  Guardsman  who  would  have  been  more,  had  he  not 
been  gentleman  enough  to  know  that  I  was  a  lad}^  And 
once  at  Cork,  I  met,  at  the  very  moment  of  landing,  with  a 
kind  old  friend.  Father  Luke,  who  took  care  of  me  hither. 
He  only  parted  with  me  at  the  gate,  not  wishing  to  interfere, 
as  he  said,  with  our  first  greetings.  But  I  don't  see  Herbert, 
—  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Poor  Herbert  has  been  dangerously  ill,  my  dear,"  said 
the  father ;   "I  scarcely  think  it  safe  for  him  to  see  you." 

"  No,  no,"  interposed  Sir  Archy,  feelingly.  "  If  the  sight 
of  her  can  stir  the  seared  heart  of  an  auld  carle  like  mysel', 
it  wadna  be  the  surest  way  to  calm  the  frenzied  blood  of  a 
youth." 

Perhaps  Sir  Archy  was  not  far  wrong.  Kate  O'Donoghue 
was,  indeed,  a  glii  of  no  common  attraction.  Her  figure  — 
rather  below  than  above  the  middle  size  —  was  yet  so  per- 
fectly moulded  that,  for  very  symmetry  and  grace,  it  seemed 
as  if  such  should  have  been  the  standard  of  womanly  beaut}^, 
while  her  countenance  had  a  character  of  loveliness  even 
more  striking  and  beautiful ;  her  eyes  were  large,  full,  and 
of  a  liquid  blue  that  resembled  black  ;  her  hair  a  rich  brown, 
through  which  a  golden  tinge  was  seen  to  run,  almost  the 
color  of  an  autumn  sunset,  giving  a  brilliancy  to  her  com- 
plexion which,  in  its  transparent  beauty,  needed  no  such  aid ; 
but  her  mouth  was  the  feature  whose  expression,  more  than 
any  other,  possessed  a  peculiar  charm.  In  speaking,  the 
rounded  lips  moved  with  a  graceful  undulation,  more  ex- 
pressive than  mere  sound,  while,  as  she  listened,  the  slight- 
est tremble  of  the  lip  harmonizing  with  the  brilliant  glance  of 
her  eyes,  gave  a  character  of  rapid  intelligence  to  her  face 
well  befitting  the  vivid  temper  of  her  nature.  She  looked 
her  very  self,  —  a  noble-hearted,  high-spirited  girl,  without  a 
thought  save  for  what  was  honorable  and  lofty ;  one  who 


KATE   O'DONOGHUE.  179 

accepted  no  compromise  with  a  doubtful  line  of  policy,  but 
eagerly  grasped  at  the  right,  and  stood  firmly  by  the  conse- 
quence. Although  educated  within  the  walls  of  a  convent, 
she  had  mixed,  her  extreme  youth  considered,  much  in  the 
world  of  the  city  she  lived  in,  and  was  thus  as  accomplished 
in  all  the  "usage"  and  conventional  habits  of  society,  as 
she  was  cultivated  in  those  gifts  and  graces  which  give  it  all 
its  ornament.  To  a  mere  passing  observer  there  might  seem 
somewhat  of  coquetry  in  her  manner ;  but  very  little  obser- 
vation would  show,  that  such  unerring  gracefulness  cannot 
be  the  result  of  mere  practice,  and  that  innate  character  had 
assumed  that  garb  which  best  suited  it,  and  not  one  to  be 
merely  worn  for  a  season.  Her  accent,  too,  when  she  spoke 
English,  had  enough  of  foreign  intonation  about  it  to  lay  the 
ground  for  a  charge  of  affectation ;  but  he  should  have  been 
a  sturdy  critic  who  could  have  persisted  in  the  accusation. 
The  fear  was  rather,  that  one  leaned  to  the  very  fault  of 
pronunciation  as  an  excellence,  so  much  of  piquancy  did  it 
occasionally  lend  to  expressions  which,  from  other  lips,  had 
seemed  tame  and  commonplace.  To  any  one  who  has  seen 
the  graceful  coquetry  of  French  manner  ingrafted  on  the 
more  meaning  eloquence  of  Irish  beauty,  my  effort  at  a  por- 
trait will  appear  a  very  meagre  and  barren  outline ;  and  I 
feel  how  poorly  I  have  endeavored  to  convey  any  idea  of 
one,  whose  Spanish  origin  had  left  a  legacy  of  gracefulness 
and  elegance,  to  be  warmed  into  life  by  the  fervid  character 
of  the  Celt,  and  tempered  again  by  the  consummate  attrac- 
tion of  French  manner. 

The  ease  and  kindliness  of  spirit  with  which  she  sat  be- 
tween the  two  old  men,  listening  in  turn  to  each,  or  answer- 
ing with  graceful  alacrity  the  questions  they  proffered  —  the 
playful  delicacy  with  which  she  evaded  the  allusions  they 
made  from  time  to  time  to  the  disappointment  the  ruined 
house  must  have  occasioned  her  —  and  the  laughing  gayety 
with  which  she  spoke  of  the  new  life  about  to  open  before 
her,  were  actually  contagious.  They  already  forgot  the 
fears  her  anticipated  coming  had  inspired,  and  gazed  on 
her  with  the  warm  affection  that  should  wait  on  a  welcome. 
Oh !  what  a  gift  is  beauty,  and  how  powerful  its  influence, 
when  strengthened  by  the  rich  eloquence  of  a  spotless  na- 


180  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

ture,  beaming  from  beneath  long-lashed  lids,  when  two  men 
like  these,  seared  and  hardened  by  the  world's  ills  —  broken 
on  the  wheel  of  fortune  —  should  feel  a  glow  of  long-forgot- 
ten gladness  in  their  chilled  hearts  as  they  looked  upon  her ! 
None  could  have  guessed,  however,  what  an  effort  that 
seeming  light-heartedness  cost  her.  Poor  girl!  Scarcely 
was  she  alone,  and  had  closed  the  door  of  her  room  behind 
her,  when  she  fell  upon  the  bed  in  a  torrent  of  tears,  and 
sobbed  as  if  her  heart  was  breaking.  All  that  Father  Luke 
had  said  as  they  came  along  —  and  the  kind  old  man  had 
done  his  utmost  to  break  the  shock  of  the  altered  state  of  her 
uncle's  fortunes  — ■  was  far  from  preparing  her  for  the  cold 
reality  she  witnessed.  It  was  not  the  ruined  walls,  the  tree- 
less mountain,  the  desolate  and  dreary  look  of  all  around 
that  smote  upon  her  heart.  Sad  as  these  signs  were,  her 
grief  had  a  higher  source.  It  was  the  sight  of  that  old  man 
she  called  father,  tottering  feebly  to  the  grave,  surrounded 
by  images  of  poverty  and  misfortune.  It  was  the  aspect 
of  Mark,  the  cousin  she  had  pictured  to  her  mind  as  an 
accomplished  gentleman  in  look  and  demeanor  —  the  descend- 
ant of  a  house  more  than  noble  —  the  heir  of  a  vast  prop- 
erty ;  and  now  she  saw  him  scarce  in  gesture  and  manner 
above  the  peasant,  —  in  dress,  as  slovenly  and  uncared-for. 
She  was  prepared  for  a  life  of  monotonous  retirement  and 
isolation.  She  was  ready  to  face  the  long  winter  of  dreary 
solitude,  —  but  not  in  such  company  as  this.  That  she  never 
calculated  on.  Her  worst  anticipations  had  never  conjured 
up  more  than  an  uncheckered  existence,  with  little  to  vary 
or  relieve  it ;  and  now,  she  foresaw  a  life  to  be  passed  amid 
the  miserable  straits  and  shifts  of  poverty,  with  all  its  petty 
incidents  and  lowering  accidents,  to  lessen  her  esteem  for 
those  she  wished  to  look  up  to  and  love.  And  this  was 
Carrignacurra,  the  proud  castle  she  had  so  often  boasted 
of  to  her  school  companions,  the  baronial  seat  she  had 
loved  to  exalt  above  the  antique  chateaux  of  France  and 
Flanders ;  and  these  the  haughty  relatives,  whose  pride  she 
mentioned  as  disdaining  the  alliance  of  the  Saxon,  and  spurn- 
ing all  admixture  of  blood  with  a  race  less  noble  than  their 
own.  The  very  chamber  she  sat  in,  how  did  it  contradict 
her  own  animated  descriptions  of  its  once  comforts  and  lux- 


KATE   O'DONOGHUE.  181 

ries  !  Alas  !  it  seemed  to  be  like  duplicity  and  falsehood, 
that  she  had  so  spoken  of  these  things.  More  than  once  she 
asked  herself  —  "Were  they  always  thus?"  Poor  child! 
she  knew  not  that  poverty  can  bring  sickness,  and  sor- 
row, and  premature  old  age.  It  can  devastate  the  fields, 
and  desolate  the  affections,  and  make  cold  both  heart  and 
home  together. 

If  want  stopped  short  at  privation,  men  need  not  to 
tremble  at  its  approach.  It  is  in  the  debasing  and  degrad- 
ing influence  of  poverty  its  real  terror  lies.  It  is  in  the 
plastic  facility  with  which  the  poor  man  shifts  to  meet  the 
coming  e^il  that  the  high  principle  of  rectitude  is  sacrificed, 
and  the  unflinching  course  of  honor  deviated  from.  When 
the  proud  three-decker,  in  all  the  majesty  of  her  might, 
may  sail  along  her  course  unaltered,  the  humble  craft,  in 
the  same  sea,  must  tack,  and  beat,  and  watch  for  every 
casualty  of  the  gale  to  gain  her  port  in  safety.  These  are 
the  trials  of  the  poor  but  proud  man.  It  is  not  the  want 
of  liveried  lackeys,  of  plate,  of  equipage,  and  all  the  glit- 
tering emblems  of  wealth,  that  smite  his  heart  and  break  his 
spirit.  It  is  the  petty  subterfuge  he  is  reduced  to  that  galls 
him. ;  it  is  the  sense  of  struggle  between  his  circumstances 
and  his  conscience,  between  what  he  does  and  what  he  feels. 

It  is  true  Kate  knew  not  these  things,  but  yet  she  had 
before  her  the  results  of  them  too  palpably  to  be  mistaken. 
Sir  Archibald  was  the  only  one  on  whom  reverse  of  fortune 
had  not  brought  carelessness  and  coarseness  of  manner.  He 
seemed,  both  in  dress  and  demeanor,  little  changed  from 
what  she  remembered  him  years  before ;  nor  had  time,  ap- 
parently, fallen  on  him  with  heavier  impress  in  other  respects. 
What  was  Herbert  like  ?  was  the  question  ever  rising  to  her 
mind,  but  with  little  hope  that  the  answer  would  prove 
satisfactory. 

While  Kate  O'Donoghue  was  thus  pondering  over  the 
characters  of  those  with  whom  she  was  now  to  live,  they, 
on  the  other  hand,  were  exerting  themselves  to  the  utmost 
to  restore  some  semblance  of  its  ancient  comfort  to  the 
long-neglected  dwelling.  A  blazing  fire  of  bog  deal  was 
lighted  in  the  old  hall,  whose  mellow  glare  glanced  along 
the  dark  oak  wamscot,  and  threw  a  rich  glow    along   the 


182  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

corridor  itself,  to  the  very  door  of  the  tower.  In  the  great 
chamber,  where  they  sat,  many  articles  of  furniture,  long 
disused  and  half  forgotten,  were  now  collected,  giving,  even 
by  their  number,  a  look  of  increased  comfort  to  the  roomy 
apartment.  Nor  were  such  articles  of  ornament  as  they 
possessed  forgotten.  The  few  pictures  which  had  escaped 
the  wreck  of  damp  and  time  were  placed  upon  the  walls,  and 
a  small  miniature  of  Kate,  as  a  child,  —  a  poor  performance 
enough,  —  was  hung  up  over  the  chimney,  as  it  were  to 
honor  her  whose  presence  these  humble  preparations  were 
made  to  celebrate.  Sir  Archy,  too,  as  eager  in  these  ar- 
rangements as  Mark  himself,  had  brought  several  books  and 
illustrated  volumes  from  his  chamber  to  scatter  upon  the 
tables ;  while,  as  if  for  a  shrine  for  the  deity  of  the  place, 
a  little  table  of  most  elaborate  marqueterie,  and  a  richly 
carved  chair  beside  the  fire,  designated  the  place  Kate  was 
to  occupy  as  her  own,  and  to  mark  which  he  had  culled  the 
very  gems  of  his  collection. 

It  is  scarcely  possible  to  conceive  how  completely  even  a 
few  trifling  objects  like  these  can  change  the  "  morale"  of 
a  chamber;  how  that  which  before  seemed  cumbrous,  sad, 
and  dispiriting,  becomes  at  once  lightsome  and  pleasant- 
looking.  But  so  it  is :  the  things  which  speak  of  human 
thought  and  feeling  appeal  to  a  very  different  sense  from 
those  which  merely  minister  to  material  comfort;  and  we 
accept  the  presence  of  a  single  book,  a  print,  or  drawing, 
as  an  evidence  that  mental  aliment  has  not  been  forgotten. 

If  the  changes  here  spoken  of  gave  a  very  different  air 
and  seeming  to  the  old  tower,  Kate's  own  presence  there 
completed  the  magic  of  the  transformation.  Dressed  in 
black  silk,  and  wearing  a  profusion  of  lace  of  the  same 
color,  —  for  her  costume  had  been  adapted  to  a  very  differ- 
ent sphere,  —  she  took  her  place  in  the  family  circle,  diffus- 
ing around  her  a  look  of  refinement  and  elegance,  and 
making  of  that  sombre  chamber  a  spacious  salon.  Her 
guitar,  her  embroidery,  her  old-fashioned  writing-desk, 
inlaid  with  silver,  caught  the  eye  as  it  wandered  about  the 
room,  and  told  of  womanly  graces  and  accomplishments  so 
foreign  to  the  rude  emblems  of  the  chase  and  the  field, 
henceforth  to  be  banished  to  the  old  entrance  hall. 


KATE   O'DONOGHUE.  183 

The  O'Donoghue  himself  felt  the  influence  of  the  young 
girl's  presence,  and  evidenced  in  his  altered  dress  and 
demeanor  the  respect  he  desired  to  show ;  while  Mark  took 
from  his  scanty  wardrobe  the  only  garment  he  possessed 
above  the  rank  of  a  shooting-jacket,  and  entered  the  room 
with  a  half-bashful,  half-sullen  air,  as  though  angry  and 
ashamed  with  himself  for  even  so  much  compliance  with  the 
world's  usages. 

Although  Kate  was  quick-sighted  enough  to  see  that  these 
changes  were  caused  on  her  account,  her  native  tact  pre- 
vented her  from  showmg  that  knowledge,  and  made  her 
receive  their  attentions  with  that  happy  blending  of  courtesy 
and  familiarity  so  fascinating  from  a  young  and  pretty 
woman.  The  dinner  —  and  it  was  a  clief-d' ceuvre  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Branaghan  —  passed  off  most  pleasantly.  The 
fear  her  coming  had  excited  now  gave  way  to  the  delight 
her  presence  conferred.  They  felt  as  if  they  had  done  her 
an  injustice  in  their  judgment,  and  hastened  to  make  every 
amende  for  their  unfair  opinion.  Never,  for  years  long, 
had  the  O'Donoghue  been  so  happy.  The  cold  and  cheerless 
chamber  was  once  more  warmed  into  a  home.  The  fire 
beside  which  he  had  so  often  brooded  in  sadness  was  now 
the  pleasant  hearth  surrounded  by  cheery  faces.  Memories 
of  the  past,  soothing  through  all  their  sorrow,  flowed  in  upon 
his  mind,  as  he  sat  and  gazed  at  her  in  tranquil  ecstasy. 
Sir  Archibald,  too,  felt  a  return  to  his  former  self  in  the  tone 
of  good-breeding  her  presence  diffused,  and  evinced,  by  the 
attentive  politeness  of  his  manner,  how  happy  he  was  to 
recur  once  more  to  the  observances  which  he  remembered 
with  so  much  affection,  associated  as  they  were  with  the 
brightest  period  of  his  life. 

As  for  Mark,  although  less  an  actor  than  the  others  in  the 
scene,  the  effect  upon  him  was  not  less  striking.  All  his 
assumed  apathy  gave  way  as  he  listened  to  her  descriptions 
of  foreign  society,  and  the  habits  of  those  she  had  lived 
amongst.  The  ringing  melody  of  her  voice,  the  brilliant 
sparkle  of  her  dark  eyes,  the  graceful  elegance  of  gesture,  — 
the  Frenchwoman's  prerogative,  —  threw  over  him  their 
charm,  a  fascination  never  experienced  before  ;  and  although 
a  dark  dread  would    now  and  then  steal  across   his  mind. 


184  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

How  was  a  creature,  beautiful  and  gifted  like  this,  to  lead 
the  life  of  dreariness  and  gloom  their  days  were  passed  in? 
—  the  tender  feeling  of  affection  she  showed  his  father,  the 
fondness  with  which  she  dwelt  on  every  little  incident  of  her 
childhood  —  every  little  detail  of  the  niountain  scenery  — 
showed  a  spirit  which  well  might  harmonize  with  a  home 
even  humble  as  theirs,  and  pleasures  as  uncostly  and  as 
simple.  "  Oh  !  if  she  grow  not  weary  of  us  !  "  was  the  heart- 
uttered  sentence  each  moment  as  he  listened ;  and  in  the 
very  anxiety  of  the  doubt  the  ecstasy  of  enjoyment  was 
heightened.  To  purchase  this  boon  there  was  nothing  he 
would  not  dare.  To  think  that  as  he  trod  the  glens,  or 
followed  the  wild  deer  along  some  cragged  and  broken 
mountain  gorge,  a  home  like  this  ever  awaited  him,  was  a 
picture  of  happiness  too  bright  and  dazzling  to  look  upon. 

''  Now,  then,  ma  belle,"  said  Sir  Archibald,  as  he  rose 
from  his  seat-,  and  with  an  air  of  gallantry  that  might  have 
done  credit  to  Versailles  of  old,  threw  the  ribbon  of  her 
guitar  over  her  neck,  "now  for  your  promise  —  that  little 
romance  ye  spoke  of." 

"Willingly,  dear  uncle,"  replied  she,  striking  the  chords 
as  a  kind  of  prelude.  "  Shall  I  sing  you  one  of  our  convent 
hymns?  —  or  will  you  have  the  romance?  " 

"  It  is  no  fair  to  tempt  one  in  a  choice,"  said  M'Xab, 
slyly;  "but  sin  ye  say  so,  I  must  hear  baith  before  I 
decide." 

"Your  own  favorite  the  first,"  said  she,  smiling;  and 
began  the  little  chanson  of  the  "  Garde  Ecossaise,"  the  song 
of  the  exiled  nobles  in  the  service  of  France,  so  dear  to  every 
Scotchman's  heart. 

While  the  melody  described  the  gathering  of  the  clans  in 
the  mountains  to  take  leave  of  their  departing  kinsmen,  the 
measured  tramp  of  the  music,  and  the  wild  ringing  of  the 
pibroch,  the  old  chieftain's  face  lit  up,  and  his  eye  glared 
with  the  fierce  fire  of  native  pride ;  but  when  the  moment  of 
leave-taking  arrived,  and  the  heartrending  cry  of  "  Fare- 
well !  "  broke  from  the  deserted,  his  eye  became  glazed  and 
filmy,  and,  with  a  hand  tremulous  from  emotion,  he  stopped 
the  singer. 

"  Na,   na,   Kate;    I    canna   bear  that  the  noo.     Ye  hae 


KATE   O'DONOGHUE.  185 

smote  the  rock  too  suddenly,  lassie ;  "  and  the  tears  rolled 
heavily  down  his  seared  cheeks. 

"  You  must  let  me  finish,  uncle,"  said  she,  disengaging 
her  hand ;  and  at  the  instant,  sweeping  the  chord  with  a  bold 
and  vigorous  finger,  she  broke  into  a  splendid  and  chivalrous 
description  of  the  Scottish  valor  in  the  service  of  France, 
every  line  swelling  with  their  proud  achievements,  as  fore- 
most they  marched  to  battle.  To  this  succeeded  the  crash 
and  turmoil  of  the  fray,  the  ringing  cheers  of  the  plaided 
warriors  mingling  with  the  war-cries  of  the  Gaul,  till,  in  a 
burst  of  triumph  and  victory,  the  song  concluded.  Then 
the  old  man  sprang  from  his  chair  and  threw  his  arms  around 
her  in  transport,  as  he  cried,  — 

"It's  a  mercifu'  thing,  lassie,  ye  didna  live  fifty  years 
ago;  by  my  soul,  there's  nae  saying  how  many  a  brave 
fellow  the  like  o'  that  had  laid  low !  " 

"  If  that  be  one  of  the  hymns  you  spoke  of,  Kate,"  said 
the  O'Donoghue,  smiling,  "  I  fancy  Mark  would  have  no 
objection  to  be  a  nun ;  but  where  is  he  ?  —  he  has  left  the 
room." 

"I  hope  there  is  nothing  in  my  song  he  disliked?"  asked 
she,  timidly;  but  before  there  was  time  for  an  answer  the 
door  opened,  and  Mark  appeared,  with  Herbert  in  his  arms. 

"There!"  said  he,  laying  him  gently  on  the  sofa;  "if 
cousin  Kate  will  only  sing  that  once  more,  I  '11  answer  for 
it,  it  will  save  you  a  fortnight  in  j^our  recovery." 

Kate  knelt  down  beside  the  sick  boy  and  kissed  him 
tenderly,  while  he,  poor  fellow,  scarce  daring  to  believe  in 
the  reality  of  all  before  him,  played  with  the  long  tangles  of 
her  silky  hair,  and  gazed  on  her  in  silence. 

"  We  maun  be  cautious,  Mark,"  whispered  M'Nab,  care- 
fully ;  but  Mark  had  no  ears  nor  eyes  save  for  her  who  now 
sat  beside  his  brother,  and  in  a  low,  soft  voice  breathed  her 
affectionate  greetings  to  him. 

In  this  way  passed  the  first  evening  of  her  coming,  —  a 
night  whose  fascination  dwelt  deep  in  every  heart,  and  made 
each  dreamer  blest. 


CHAPTER  XVni. 


A    HASTY    PLEDGE. 


While  these  things  were  happening  within  the  ruined  castle 
of  the  O'Donoghue,  a  guest,  equally  unexpected  as  theu's, 
had  arrived  at  the  Lodge.  Frederick  Travers,  delayed  in 
Bristol  by  contrary  winds,  had  come  over  in  the  same  packet 
with  Kate ;  but  without  being  able  either  to  learn  her  name, 
or  whither  she  was  going.  His  unlooked-for  appearance 
at  the  Lodge  was  a  most  welcome  surprise  both  to  Sir 
Marmaduke  and  Sybella ;  and  as  he  did  not  desire  to  avow 
the  real  object  of  his  coming,  it  was  regarded  by  them  as 
the  most  signal  proof  of  affection.  They  well  knew  how 
much  London  life  engrossed  him,  how  completely  its  peculiar 
habits  and  haunts  possessed  attractions  for  him,  and  with 
what  a  depreciating  estimate  he  looked  down  on  every  part 
of  the  globe  save  that  consecrated  to  the  fashionable  follies 
and  amusements  of  his  own  set. 

He  was  not,  in  reality,  insensible  to  other  and  better 
influences;  his  affection  for  his  father  and  sister  was  un- 
bounded ;  he  had  a  bold,  manly  spirit,  unalloyed  with  any- 
thing mean  or  sordid ;  a  generous,  candid  nature,  and 
straightforward  earnestness  of  purpose,  that  often  carried 
him  farther  by  impulse  than  he  was  followed  by  his  convic- 
tions. Still,  a  conventional  cant,  a  tone  of  disparaging, 
half-contemptuous  indifference  to  everything  which  char- 
acterized his  associates,  had  already  infected  him;  and  he 
felt  ashamed  to  confess  to  those  sentiments  and  opinions, 
to  possess  and  to  act  upon  which  should  have  been  his 
dearest  pride. 

''  Well,  Fred,"  said  Sybella,  as  they  drew  around  the  fire 
after  dinner,  in  that  happy  home  circle  so  suggestive  of 
enjoyment,  "  let  us  hear  what  you  thought  of  the  scenery. 
Is  not  Glenflesk  fine?" 


A  HASTY  PLEDGE.  187 

*'Matlock  on  a  larger  scale,"  said  he,  coolly.  *'  Less 
timber  and  more  rocks." 

"  Matlock !    dear   Fred.       You   might   as    "well   compare 
Keim-an-eigh  with  Holborn,  —  you  are  only  jesting." 

"  Compare  what?  Repeat  that  droll  name,  I  beg  of 
you." 

*' Keim-an-eigh.  It  is  a  mountain  pass  quite  close  to  us 
here." 

'' Admu-ably  done!  Why,  Sybella  dear,  I  shall  not  be 
surprised  to  see  you  take  to  the  red  petticoat  and  bare  feet 
soon.  Y"ou  have  indoctrinated  yourself  wonderfully  since 
your  arrival." 

*'I  like  the  people  with  all  my  heart,  Fred,"  said  she, 
artlessly,  "and  if  I  could  imitate  many  of  their  traits  of 
forbearance  and  long-suffering  patience  by  following  their 
costume,  I  promise  you  I'  d  don  the  scarlet." 

"  Ay,  Fred,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  with  a  sententious 
gravity,  "they  don't  know  these  Irish  at  all  at  our  side  of 
the  water.  They  mistake  them  totally.  They  only  want 
teaching,  —  a  little  example,  a  little  encouragement,  that 's 
all,  —  and  they  are  as  docile  and  tractable  as  possible.  I  '11 
show  you  to-morrow  what  improvements  a  few  months  have 
effected.  I  '11  bring  you  over  a  part  of  the  estate  where  there 
was  not  a  hovel  fit  for  a  dog,  and  you  shall  see  what  com- 
fortable dwellings  they  have.  We  hear  nothing  in  England 
but  the  old  songs  about  popery,  and  superstition,  and  all 
that.  Why,  my  dear  Fred,  these  people  don't  care  a  straw 
for  the  priest,  —  they  'd  be  anything  I  asked  them." 

"Devilish  high  principled  that,  any  way,"  said  Fred, 
dryly. 

"  I  did  n't  exactly  mean  that,  —  at  least,  in  the  sense  you 
take  it.  I  was  about  to  say,  that  such  is  their  confidence, 
such  their  gratitude  to  the  landlord,  that  —  that  —  " 

"That,  in  short,  they'd  become  Turks,  for  an  abatement 
in  the  rent.  Well,  Sybella  dear,  is  this  one  of  the  traits 
you  are  so  anxious  to  imitate?" 

"Why  will  you  misunderstand,  Fred?"  said  Sybella, 
imploringly.  "Cannot  you  see  that  gratitude  may  lead  an 
uninstructed  people  far  beyond  the  limits  of  reason?  —  my 
father  is  so  good  to  them." 


188  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

**  With  all  my  heart ;  I  have  not  the  slightest  objection 
in  life ;  indeed,  I  'm  not  sure,  if  all  the  estate  be  like  what 
I  passed  through  this  afternoon,  if  my  generosity  wouldn't 
go  farther,  and,  instead  of  reducing  the  rent,  make  them  an 
honest  present  of  the  fee  simple." 

"Foolish    boy!"    said    Sir   Marmaduke,    half    angrily. 
"There  are  forty  thousand  acres  of  reclaimable  land  — " 

"Which  might  bear  crops  anno  Domini  3095." 

"  There  are  mines  of  inexhaustible  wealth." 

"And  would  cost  such  to  work  them,  sir,  no  doubt. 
Come,  come,  father,  —  Hemsworth  has  passed  a  life  among 
these  people.     He  knows  more  than  we  do,  or  ever  shall." 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  nettled  by  such  a 
sarcasm  on  his  powers  of  observation,  "I  know  them  per- 
fectly ;  I  can  read  them  like  a  book.  They  are  a  guileless, 
simple-minded,  confiding  people;  you  may  see  every  thought 
they  have  in  their  countenances.  They  only  need  the  com- 
monest offices  of  kindness  to  attach  them ;  and  as  for  polit- 
ical or  religious  leanings,  I  have  questioned  them  pretty 
closely,  and,  without  a  single  exception,  have  heard  nothing 
but  sentiments  of  loyalty  and  attachment  to  the  church." 

"Well,  I  only  hope  you  don't  mean  to  prolong  your  stay 
here.  I  'm  sure  you  've  done  enough  for  any  ordinary  call 
of  conscience ;  and,  if  you  have  not,  set  about  it  in  right 
earnest,  —  convert  the  tens  into  hundreds ;  make  them  all 
as  comfortable  as  possible,  —  and  then,  in  Heaven's  name, 
get  back  again  to  England.  There  is  no  earthly  reason  why 
you  should  pass  your  time  here ;    and  as  for  Sybella  — " 

"  Don't  include  me,  Fred,  in  your  reasons  for  departure. 
I  never  was  go  happy  in  my  life." 

"There,  boy,  there's  an  example  for  you;  and  if  you 
need  another,  here  am  I,  ready  to  confess  the  same  thing. 
I  don't  mean  that  there  are  not  little  dampers  and  difficul- 
ties. There  's  that  fool  about  the  mill-wheel,  and  that  fel- 
low that  persists  in  dragging  the  river  with  a  net ;  "  and  so 
he  muttered  on  for  some  minutes  between  his  teeth,  to  the 
evident  enjoyment  of  Fred,  whose  quivering  lip  and  laugh- 
ing eye  told  how  he  appreciated  the  conflicting  evidence 
memory  was  eliciting. 

Thus,  for  some  time,  the   conversation   continued,  until 


A   HASTY  PLEDGE.  189 

Miss  Travers  retired  for  the  night.  Then  Sir  Marmaduke 
drew  his  chaii-  closer  to  his  son's,  and,  in  an  earnest  manner, 
related  the  whole  circumstance  of  Sybella's  escape  from 
the  mountain  torrent,  dwelling  with  grateful  eloquence  on 
the  young  O'Donoghue's  heroism  in  coming  to  her  rescue. 
"The  youth  has  narrowly  escaped  with  his  life.  The  doc- 
tor, who  left  this  but  a  few  hours  ago,  said  he  '  never  wit- 
nessed a  more  dangerous  case  than  the  symptoms  at  one 
time  presented.'  He  is  well,  however,  now, — the  risk  is 
past,  —  and  I  want  your  aid,  Fred,  to  devise  some  suitable 
mode  of  evincing  our  gratitude." 

"These  O'Donoghues  are  your  tenants,  are  they  not?" 
asked  the  young  man. 

"  Yes,  they  are  tenants;  but  on  that  score  we  must  not 
say  much  in  their  favor.  Wylie  tells  me  that  they  have 
been  at  feud  with  Hemsworth  for  years  past;  they  never 
pay  rent,  nor  will  they  surrender  possession.  The  whole 
thing  is  a  difficult  matter  to  understand  ;  first  of  all,  there 
is  a  mortgage  —  " 

"  There,  there,  my  dear  father,  don't  puzzle  my  brain 
and  your  own  with  a  statement  we'll  never  get  to  the 
end  of.  The  point  I  want  to  learn  is,  they  are  your 
tenants — " 

"  Y"es,  at  least  for  part  of  the  land  they  occupy.  There 
is  a  dispute  about  another  portion ;  but  I  believe  Hems- 
worth  has  got  the  Attorney-General's  opinion  that  their 
case  cannot  stand." 

"Tush  —  never  mind  the  Attorney-General.  Give  up 
the  question  at  issue ;  send  him,  or  his  father,  or  whoever  it 
is,  the  receipt  for  the  rent  due,  and  take  care  Hemsworth 
does  not  molest  him  in  future." 

"But  you  don't  see,  boy,  what  we  are  doing.  AVe  hope 
to  obtain  the  whole  of  the  Ballyvourney  property,  —  that  is 
part  of  our  plan ;  the  tenants  there  are  in  a  state  of  abso- 
lute misery  and  starvation." 

"Then,  in  God's  name,  give  them  plenty  to  eat;  it 
does  n't  signify  much,  I  suppose,  whose  tenantry  they  are 
when  they  're  hungry." 

The  old  gentleman  was  scarcely  prepared  for  such  an 
extended  basis  for  his  philanthropy,  and,  for  a  moment  or 


190  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

two,  seemed  quite  dumfounded  by  his  son's  proposition, 
while  Fred  continued,  — 

"  If  I  understand  the  matter,  it  lies  thus :  you  owe  a  debt 
of  gratitude  which  you  are  desirous  to  acquit;  you  don't 
care  to  pay  highly." 

''  On  the  contrary,  I  am  quite  willing,"  interposed  Sir 
Marmaduke;  "but  let  the  price  be  one  which  shall  realize 
a  benefit  equivalent  to  its  amount.  If  I  assure  these  people 
in  the  possession  of  their  land,  what  security  have  I  that 
they  will  not  continue,  as  of  old,  the  same  useless,  wasteful, 
spendthrift  set  they  ever  were,  — presenting  the  worst  pos- 
sible example  to  the  other  tenants,  and  marring  the  whole 
force  of  the  lesson  I  am  endeavoring  to  inculcate  ?  " 

"That,  I  take  it,  is  more  their  affair  than  yours^  after 
all,"  said  Fred;  "you  are  not  to  confer  the  boon  and  allo- 
cate its  advantages  afterwards.  But  come,  what  kind  of 
people  are  they  ?  " 

"Oh!  a  species  of  half-gentry,  half-farmer  set,  I  believe, 
proud  as  they  are  poor,  deeming  themselves,  as  O'Donoghues, 
at  least  our  equals,  but  living,  as  I  believe,  in  every  kind  of 
privation." 

"  Very  well;  sit  down  there,  and  let  me  have  a  check  on 
your  banker  for  five  hundred  pounds,  and  leave  the  affair 
to  me." 

"  But  you  mistake,  Fred,  they  are  as  haughty  as  Lucifer." 

"  Just  leave  it  to  me,  sir.  I  fancy  I  know  something  of 
the  world  by  this  time.  It  may  require  more  money,  but 
the  result  I  will  answer  for." 

Sir  Marmaduke's  confidence  in  his  son's  tact  and  worldly 
skill  was  one  of  the  articles  of  his  faith,  and  he  sat  down 
at  the  table  and  wrote  the  order  on  the  bank  at  once. 
"Here,  Fred,"  said  he;  "I  only  beg  of  you  to  remember 
that  the  way  to  express  the  grateful  sense  I  entertain  of 
this  boy's  conduct  is  not  by  wounding  the  susceptibilities 
of  his  feelings ;  and  if  they  be  above  the  class  of  farmers, 
which  I  really  cannot  ascertain,  your  steps  must  demand  all 
your  caution." 

"  I  hope,  sir,"  said  Fred,  with  some  vanity  in  the  tone, 
"  that  I  have  never  made  3'ou  blush  for  my  awkwardness, 
and  I  don't  intend  to  do  so  now.     I  promise  for  the  success 


A   HASTY  PLEDGE.  191 

of  my  negotiatiou ;  but  I  must  not  say  a  word  more  of  how 
I  mean  to  obtain  it." 

Sir  Marmacluke  was  far  from  feeling  satisfied  with  him- 
self for  having  even  so  far  encouraged  a  plan  that  his  own 
blind  confidence  in  his  sou's  cleverness  had  for  a  moment 
entrapped  him  into ;  he  would  gladly  have  withdrawn  his 
consent,  but  old  experience  taught  him  that  Fred  was  never 
completely  convinced  he  was  right  until  he  met  opposition 
to  his  opinion.  So  he  parted  with  him  for  the  night,  hoping 
that  sleep  might  suggest  a  wiser  counsel  and  a  clearer  head ; 
and  that,  being  left  free  to  act,  he  might  possibly  feel  a 
doubt  as  to  the  correctness  of  his  own  judgment. 

As  for  Fred,  no  sooner  was  he  alone  than  he  began  to 
regret  the  pledge  his  precipitancy  had  carried  him  into. 
What  were  the  nature  of  the  advances  he  was  to  make, 
how  to  open  the  negotiation,  in  a  quarter  the  habits  and 
prejudices  of  which  he  was  utterly  ignorant  of,  he  had  not 
the  most  vague  conception ;  and,  as  he  sought  his  chamber, 
he  had  half  persuaded  himself  to  the  conviction  that  the 
safest,  and  the  most  honest  course,  after  all,  would  be  to 
avow  in  the  morning  that  he  had  overstated  his  diplomatic 
abilities,  and  fairly  abandon  a  task  to  which  he  saw  himself 
inadequate.  These  were  his  last  sleeping  thoughts ;  for  his 
waking  resolves  we  must  enter  upon  another  chapter. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


A    DIPLOMATIST    DEFEATED. 


If  Frederick  Travers  went  to  sleep  at  night  with  very  con- 
siderable doubts  as  to  the  practicability  of  his  plans  regard- 
ing the  O'Donoghues,  his  waking  thoughts  were  very  far 
from  reassuring  him,  and  he  heartily  wished  he  had  never 
engaged  in  the  enterprise.  Now,  however,  his  honor  was  in 
a  manner  pledged  ;  he  had  spoken  so  confidently  of  success, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  forward,  and  endeavor,  as 
well  he  might,  to  redeem  his  promise. 

At  the  time  we  speak  of,  military  men  never  for  a  moment 
divested  themselves  of  the  emblems  of  their  career;  the 
uniform  and  the  sword,  the  plumed  hat  and  the  high  boot, 
formed  a  costume  not  to  be  worn  at  certain  periods  and  laid 
aside  at  others,  but  was  their  daily  dress,  varying  merely  in 
the  degree  of  full  or  half  dress,  as  the  occasion  warranted. 
There  was  no  affectation  of  the  happy  freedom  of  "  mufti," 
no  pretended  enjoyment  of  the  incognito  of  a  black  coat 
and  round  hat ;  on  the  contrary,  the  king's  livery  was  borne 
with  a  pride  which,  erring  on  the  opposite  side,  suggested 
a  degree  of  assumption  and  conscious  importance  in  the 
wearer  which  more  or  less  separated  the  soldier  from  the 
civilian  in  bearing,  and  gradually  originated  a  feeling  of 
soreness  on  the  part  of  the  more  humbly  clad  citizen  towards 
the  more  favored  order. 

A  certain  haughty,  overbearing  tone  of  manner,  was  then 
popular  in  the  army,  and  particularly  in  those  regiments 
which  boasted  of  an  unalloyed  nobility  among  the  officers. 
If  they  assumed  an  air  of  superiority  to  the  rest  of  the  ser- 
vice, so  much  the  more  did  they  look  down  upon  the  mere 
civilian,  whom  they  considered  as  belonging  to  a  very  sub- 
ordinate class  and  order  of  mankind.     To  mark  the  sense  of 


A  DIPLOMATIST   DEFEATED.  193 

this  difference  of  condition  in  a  hundred  little  ways,  and  by 
a  hundred  petty  observances,  was  part  of  a  military  educa- 
tion, and  became  a  more  unerring  test  of  the  soldier  in 
society,  than  even  the  cockade  and  the  cross-belt.  To  sup- 
pose that  such  a  line  of  conduct  should  not  have  inspired 
those  against  whom  it  was  directed  with  a  feeling  of  counter 
hatred,  would  be  to  disbelieve  in  human  nature.  The  civilian, 
indeed,  reciprocated  with  dislike  the  soldier's  insolence,  and, 
in  their  estrangement  from  each  other,  the  breach  grew  grad- 
ually wider,  —  the  dominant  tyranny  of  the  one,  and  the 
base-born  vulgarity  of  the  other,  being  themes  each  loved  to 
dilate  upon  without  ceasing. 

Now  this  consciousness  of  superiority,  so  far  from  reliev- 
ing Frederick  Travers  of  any  portion  of  the  difficulty  of  his 
task,  increased  it  tenfold.  He  knew  and  felt  he  was  stoop- 
ing to  a  most  unwarrantable  piece  of  condescension  in  seek- 
ing these  people  at  all ;  and  although  he  trusted  firmly  that 
his  aristocratic  friends  were  very  unlikely  to  hear  of  proceed- 
ings in  a  quarter  so  remote  and  unvisited,  yet  how  he  should 
answer  to  his  own  heart  for  such  a  course,  was  another  and 
a  far  more  puzzling  matter.  He  resolved,  then,  in  the  true 
spirit  of  his  order,  to  give  his  conduct  all  the  parade  of  a 
most  condescending  act,  to  let  them  see  plainly  how  im- 
measurably low  he  had  voluntarily  descended  to  meet  them ; 
and  to  this  end  he  attired  himself  in  his  full  field  uniform, 
and  with  as  scrupulous  a  care  as  though  the  occasion  were  a 
review  before  his  Majesty.  His  costume  of  scarlet  coat, 
with  blue  velvet  facings,  separated  at  the  breast  so  as  to 
show  a  vest  of  white  kerseymere,  trimmed  with  a  gold 
border  —  his  breeches,  of  the  same  color  and  material,  met 
at  the  knee  by  the  high  and  polished  boot,  needed  but  the 
addition  of  his  cocked  hat,  fringed  with  an  edging  of 
ostrich  feathers,  to  set  off  a  figure  of  singular  elegance  and 
symmetry.  The  young  men  of  the  day  were  just  beginning 
to  dispense  with  hair  powder,  and  Fred  wore  his  rich  brown 
locks,  long  and  floating,  in  the  new  mode,  —  a  fashion  which 
well  became  him,  and  served  to  soften  down  the  somewhat 
haughty  carriage  of  his  head.  There  was  an  air  of  freedom, 
an  absence  of  restraint,  in  the  militar}^  costume  of  the  period, 
which  certainly  contributed  to  increase  the  advantages  of  a 

VOL.  I. —13 


194  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

naturally  good-looking  man,  in  the  same  way  as  the  present 
stiff  Pi'ussian  mode  of  dress  will  assuredly  conceal  many 
defects  in  mould  and  form  among  less-favored  individuals. 
The  loosely-falling  flaps  of  the  waistcoat  —  the  deep  hanging 
cuffs  of  the  coat  —  the  easy  folds  of  the  long  sku-t  —  gave  a 
character  of  courtliness  to  uniform  which,  to  our  eye,  it  at 
present  is  very  far  from  possessing.  In  fact,  the  graceful 
carriage  and  courteous  demeanor  of  the  drawing-room 
suffered  no  impediment  from  the  pillory  of  a  modern 
stock,  or  the  rigid  inflexibility  of  a  coat  strained  almost 
to  bursting. 

"Are  you  on  duty,  Fred?"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  laugh- 
ing, as  his  son  entered  the  breakfast-room  thus  carefully 
attired. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  preparing  for  my  mission ;  and  it  would 
ill  become  an  ambassador  to  deliver  his  •  credentials  in 
undress." 

"To  what  court  are  you  then  accredited?"  said  Sybella, 
laughing. 

"  His  Majesty  The  O'Donoghue,"  interposed  his  father, 
"  King  of  Glenflesk,  Baron  of  Inchigeela,  Lord  Protector 
of  —  of  half  the  blackguards  in  the  county,  I  verily  believe," 
added  he,  in  a  more  natural  key. 

"Are  you  really  going  to  Carrignacurra,  Fred?"  asked 
Miss  Travers,  hurriedly;  "  are  you  going  to  ^^sit  our 
neighbors  ?  " 

"I'll  not  venture  to  say  that  such  is  the  place,  much  less 
pretend  to  pronounce  it  after  you,  my  dear  sister,  but  I  am 
about  to  wait  on  these  worthy  people,  and,  if  they  will 
permit  me,  have  a  peep  at  the  interior  of  their  stockade  or 
wigwam,  whichever  it  be." 

"It  must  have  been  a  very  grand  thing  in  its  day:  that 
old  castle  has  some  fine  features  about  it  yet,"  replied  she, 
calmly. 

"Like  Windsor,  I  suppose,"  said  Fred,  as  he  replied  to 
her ;  and  then  complacently  glanced  at  the  well-fitting  boot 
which  ornamented  his  leg.  "They'll  not  be  over-ceremo- 
nious, I  hope,  about  according  me  an  audience." 

"  Not  in  the  forenoon,  I  believe,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke, 
dryly ;  for  he  was  recalling  the  description  old  Roach  had 


A  DIPLOMATIST  DEFEATED.  195 

given  him  of  his  own  reception  by  Kerry  O'Leary,  and 
which  circumstance,  by  the  bye,  figured  somewhat  ostenta- 
tiously in  his  charge  to  the  old  baronet. 

"  Oh,  then,  they  receive  early,"  resumed  Fred,  "  the  old 
French  style  —  the  j^^t^i  lever  du  roi  —  before  ten  o'clock. 
Another  cup  of  tea,  Sybella,  and  then  I  must  look  after  a 
horse." 

"  I  have  given  orders  already  on  that  score.  I  flatter  my- 
self you  '11  rather  approve  of  my  stud ;  for,  amongst  the 
incongruities  of  Ireland,  I  have  fallen  upon  an  honest  horse- 
dealer." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  young  man,  with  more  interest  than 
he  had  yet  shown  in  the  conversation;  "I  must  cultivate 
that  fellow;  one  might  exhibit  him  with  great  success  in 
London." 

"Unquestionably,  Fred,  he  is  a  curiosity;  for  while  he 
is  a  perfect  simpleton  about  the  value  of  an  animal,  —  an 
easy-tempered,  good-natured,  soft  fellow, — with  respect  to 
knowledge  of  a  horse,  his  points,  his  performance,  and  his 
soundness,  I  never  saw  his  equal." 

''I'll  give  him  a  commission  to  get  me  two  chargers," 
said  Fl-ed,  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  deriving  so  much 
benefit  from  his  Irish  journey.  "  What  makes  you  look  so 
serious,  Sybella?" 

"Was  I  so,  Fred?  I  scarcely  know, — perhaps  I  was 
regretting,"  added  she,  archly,  "  that  there  were  no  ladies 
at  Carrignacurra  to  admire  so  very  smart  a  cavalier." 

Frederick  colored  slightly  and  endeavored  to  laugh ;  but 
the  consciousness  that  his  "  bravery"  of  costume  was  some- 
what out  of  place,  worried  him,  and  he  made  no  reply. 

"You'll  not  be  long,  Fred,"  said  his  father;  "I  shall 
want  you  to  take  a  walk  with  me  to  the  lake." 

"  No,  Fred,  —  don't  stay  long  away;  it  is  not  above  two 
miles  from  this  at  farthest." 

"  Had  I  not  better  send  a  guide  with  you?  " 

"  No,  no ;  if  the  place  be  larger  than  a  mud  hovel,  I  can- 
not mistake  it.  So  here  comes  our  steed.  Well,  I  own,  he 
is  the  best  thing  I  've  yet  seen  in  these  parts ;  "  and  the 
youth  opened  the  window,  and  stepped  out  to  approach  the 
animal.     He   was,    indeed,   a  very  creditable    specimen    of 


196  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Lanty's  taste  in  horseflesh,  —  the  model  of  a  compact  and 
powerfully-built  cob  horse. 

"A  hundred  guineas,  eh?"  said  Fred,  in  a  tone  of 
question. 

"  Sixty — not  a  pound  more,"  said  the  old  man,  in  con- 
scious pride.  "The  fellow  said  but  fifty;  I  added  ten  on 
my  own  account." 

Frederick  mounted  the  cob,  and  rode  him  across  the  grass, 
with  that  quiet  hand  and  steady  seat  which  bespeaks  the 
judgment  of  one  called  upon  to  be  critical.  "A  little,  a 
very  little,  over  done  in  the  mouthing,  but  his  action  perfect," 
said  he,  as  he  returned  to  the  window,  and  held  the  animal 
in  an  attitude  to  exhibit  his  fine  symmetry  to  advantage. 
*'  The  Prince  has  a  passion  for  a  horse  of  this  class ;  I  hope 
you  have  not  become  attached  to  him  ?  " 

''His  Royal  Highness  shall  have  him  at  once,  Fred,  if  he 
will  honor  you  by  accepting  him."  And  as  he  spoke,  he  laid 
the  stress  on  the  yoii^  to  evince  the  pleasure  he  anticipated 
in  the  present  being  made  by  Frederick,  and  not  himself. 

"Now,  then,  with  God  and  St.  George!"  cried  Fred, 
laughingly,  as  he  waved  an  adieu  with  his  plumed  hat,  and 
cantered  easily  towards  the  high  road. 

It  was  a  clear  and  frosty  day  in  December,  with  a  blue 
sky  above,  and  all  below  bright  and  glittering  in  a  thin 
atmosphere.  The  lake,  clear  as  crystal,  reflected  every 
cliff  and  crag  upon  the  mountain,  while  each  island  on  its 
surface  was  defined  with  a  crisp  sharpness  of  outline,  scarce 
less  beautiful  than  in  the  waving  foliage  of  summer.  The 
many  colored  heaths,  too,  shone  in  hues  more  bright  and 
varied  than  usual  in  our  humid  climate ;  and  the  voices 
which  broke  the  silence,  heard  from  long  distances  away, 
came  mellowed  and  softened  in  their  tones,  and  harmonized 
well  with  the  solitary  grandeur  of  the  scene.  Nor  was 
Frederick  Travers  insensible  to  its  influence ;  the  height  of 
those  bold  mountains  —  their  wild  and  fanciful  outlines  — 
the  sweeping  glens  that  wound  along  their  bases  —  the  wa}^- 
ward  stream  that  flowed  through  the  deep  valleys,  and,  as  if 
in  sportiveness,  serpentined  their  course,  were  features  of 
scenery  he  had  not  witnessed  before,  while  the  perfect  soli- 
tude awed  and  appalled  him. 


A  DIPLOMATIST  DEFLATED. 


197 


He  had  not  ridden  long  when  the  tall  towers  of  the  old 
castle  of  Carrignacurra  caught  his  eye,  standing  proudly  on 
the  bold  mass  of  rock  above  the  road.  The  unseemly 
adjunct  of  farm-house  and  stables  were  lost  to  view  at  such 
a  distance,  or  blended  with  the  general  mass  of  building,  so 


that  the  whole  gave  the  impression  of  extent  and  pretension 
to  a  degree  he  was  by  no  means  prepared  for.  These  feat- 
ures, however,  gradually  diminished  as  he  drew  nearer ;  the 
highly  pitched  roof,  pierced  with  narrow  windows,  patched 
and  broken  — the  crumbling  battlements  of  the  towers  them- 
selves—  the  ruinous  dilapidation  of  the  outer  buildings,  dis- 
enchanted the  spectator  of  his  first  more  favorable  opinion; 
until  at  length,  as   he  surveyed   the  incongruous  and  mis« 


198  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

shapen  pile,  with  its  dreary  mouutaiu  background,  be  won- 
dered bow,  at  any  point  of  view,  be  should  have  deemed  it 
other  than  the  gloomy  abode  it  seemed  at  that  moment. 

The  only  figure  Frederick  Travers  bad  seen,  as  he  rode 
along,  was  that  of  a  man  carrying  a  gun  in  bis  band,  in  a 
dress  somewhat  like  a  gamekeeper's,  who,  at  some  short 
distance  from  the  roa.d,  moved  actively  across  the  fields, 
springing  lightly  from  hillock  to  hillock  with  the  step  of 
a  practised  mountain  walker,  and  seemingly  regardless  of 
the  weight  of  a  burden  which  be  carried  on  one  shoulder ; 
so  rapidly  did  he  move  that  Frederick  found  it  difficult  to 
keep  pace  with  him,  as  the  road  was  deeply  cut  up,  and 
far  from  safe  for  horse  travel.  Curious  to  make  out  what 
be  carried,  Travers  spurred  eagerly  forward ;  and  at  last, 
but  not  without  an  effort,  came  within  bail  of  him  at  the 
iron-barred  gate  which  formed  the  outer  entrance  to  the 
castle  from  the  high  road.  The  burden  was  now  easily 
seen,  and  at  once  suggested  to  Frederick's  mind  the  reason 
of  the  bearer's  baste.  It  was  a  j'Oung  buck,  just  killed ; 
the  blood  still  trickled  from  a  wound  in  its  skull. 

''  Leave  that  gate  open,  my  good  fellow,"  cried  Frede- 
rick, in  a  voice  of  command,  as  the  other  pushed  the  frail 
portal  wide,  and  let  it  fall  back  heavily  to  its  place  again, 

—  "  do  3^ou  hear  me?  —  leave  it  open." 

"  We  always  leap  it  when  mounted,"  was  the  cool  reply, 
as  the  speaker  turned  bis  bead  round,  and  then,  without 
deigning  either  another  word  or  look,  continued  bis  way  up 
the  steep  ascent. 

Travers  felt  the  rude  taunt  sorely,  and  would  have  given 
much  to  be  near  him  who  uttered  it ;  but,  whether  disdain- 
ing to  follow  a  counsel  thus  insolently  conveyed,  or,  it 
might  be,  not  over-confident  of  his  horse,  be  dismounted, 
and,  flinging  wide  the  gate,  rode  quickly  up  the  causeway, 

—  not,  however,  in  time  to  overtake  the  other,  for,  although 
the  way  was  enclosed  by  walls  on  both  sides,  be  bad  dis- 
appeared already,  but  in  what  manner,  and  bow,  it  seemed 
impossible  to  say. 

"  My  father  has  omitted  poaching,  it  would  seem,  in  his 
catalogue  of  Irish  virtues,"  muttered  the  young  man,  as  he 
rode   through    the    arched   keep,    and    halted    at    the    chief 


A  DIPLOMATIST  DEFEATED.  199 

entrance  of  the  house.  The  door  lay  open,  clisplaj'ing  the 
cheerful  blaze  of  a  pine-wood  fire  that  burned  briskly  within 
the  ample  chimney  in  the  keen  air  of  a  frosty  morning.  "I 
see  I  shall  have  my  ride  tor  my  pains,"  was  Fred's  reflection 
as  he  passed  into  the  wide  hall,  and  beheld  the  old  weapons 
and  hunting  spoils  arranged  around  the  walls.  ''These 
people  affect  chieftainship,  and  go  hungry  to  bed  to  dream 
of  fourteen  quarterings.  Be  it  so.  I  shall  see  the  old 
rookery,  at  all  events ;  "  and,  so  saying,  he  gave  a  vigorous 
pull  at  the  old  bell,  which  answered  loudly  in  its  own  person, 
and  also  by  a  deep  howl  from  the  aged  foxhound,  then 
lying  at  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room.  These  sounds  soon 
died  away,  and  a  silence  deep  and  unbroken  as  before  suc- 
ceeded. A  second  time,  and  a  third,  Travers  repeated  his 
summons,  but  without  any  difference  of  result,  save  that 
the  dog  no  longer  gave  tongue ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  were 
becoming  reconciled  to  the  disturbance,  as  one  that  needed 
no  further  attention  from  him. 

"I  must  explore  for  m^^self,"  thought  Fred;  and  so, 
attaching  his  horse  to  the  massive  ring  by  which  a  chain 
used  once  to  be  suspended  across  the  portal,  he  entered 
the  house.  Walking  leisurely  forward,  he  gained  the  long 
corridor.  For  a  second  or  two  he  was  uncertain  how  to 
proceed,  when  a  gleam  of  light  from  the  half-open  door  in 
the  tower  led  him  onward.  As  he  drew  near,  he  heard  the 
deep  tones  of  a  man's  voice  recounting,  as  it  seemed,  some 
story  of  the  chase;  the  last  words,  at  least,  were,  "I  fired 
but  one  shot,  —  the  herd  is  wild  enough  already."  Travers 
pushed  wide  the  door,  and  entered.  As  he  did  so,  he  in- 
voluntarily halted  :  the  evidences  of  habits  and  tastes  he  was 
not  prepared  for  suddenly  rebuked  his  unannounced  approach, 
and  he  would  gladly  have  retreated  were  it  now  practicable. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  the  same  voice  he  heard  before,  and 
from  a  young  man  who  leaned  with  one  arm  on  the 
chimney-piece,  and  with  the  other  hand  held  his  gun,  while 
he  appeared  as  if  he  had  been  conversing  with  a  pale  and 
sickly  youth,  propped  and  pillowed  in  a  deep  arm-chair. 
They  were  the  only  occupants  of  the  room.  "Well,  sir,  it 
would  seem  you  have  made  a  mistake  :  the  inn  is  lower  down 
the  glen,  — you'll  see  a  sign  over  the  doorway." 


200  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

The  look  which  accompanied  this  insolent  speech  recalled 
at  once  to  Frederick's  mind  the  same  figure  he  had  seen  in 
the  glen ;  and,  stung  by  impertinence  from  such  a  quarter, 
he  replied,  — 

"Have  no  fear,  young  fellow;  you  may  poach  every 
acre  for  twenty  miles  round,  —  I  have  not  tracked  you  on 
that  score." 

''Poach!  —  tracked  me!"  reiterated  Mark  O'Donoghue, 
for  it  is  needless  to  say  it  was  he ;  and  then,  as  if  the  ludi- 
crous were  even  stronger  in  his  mind  than  mere  passion, 
he  burst  into  a  rude  laugh ;  while  the  sick  boy's  pale  face 
grew  a  deep  crimson,  as,  with  faltering  accents,  he  said : 

"You  must  be  a  stranger  here,  sir,  I  fancy?" 

"I  am  so,"  said  Travers,  mildly,  and  yielding  at  once  to 
the  respect  ever  due  to  suffering  :  "  my  name  is  Travers.  I 
have  come  over  here  to  inquire  after  a  young  gentleman  who 
saved  my  sister's  life." 

"Then  you've  tracked  him  well,"  interposed  Mark,  with 
an  emphasis  on  the  word.     "Here  he  is." 

"Will  you  not  sit  down?"  said  Herbert,  motioning  with 
his  wasted  hand  to  a  seat. 

Frederick  took  his  place  beside  the  boy  at  once,  and  said, 
"  We  owe  you,  sir,  the  deepest  debt  of  gratitude  it  has 
ever  been  our  fortune  to  incur ;  and  if  anything  could  en- 
hance the  obligation,  it  has  been  the  heroism,  the  personal 
daring  —  " 

"Hold,  there,"  said  Mark,  sternly.  "It's  not  our  cus- 
tom here  to  listen  to  compliments  on  our  courage :  we  are 
O'Donoghues." 

"This  young  gentleman's  daring  was  no  common  one," 
answered  Travers,  as  if  stung  by  the  taunt. 

"  My  brother  will  scarce  feel  flattered  by  your  telling  him 
so,"  was  Mark's  haughty  answer ;  and  for  some  seconds 
Frederick  knew  not  how  to  resume  the  conversation ;  at 
last,  turning  to  Herbert,  he  said,  — 

"  May  I  hope  that,  without  offending  you,  we  may  be 
permitted  in  some  shape  to  express  the  sentiment  I  speak 
of?  It  is  a  debt  which  cannot  be  requited;  let  us  at  least 
have  some  evidence  that  we  acknowledge  it." 

"It  is  the  more  like  some  of  our  own,"  broke  in  Mark, 


A  DIPLOMATIST  DEFEATED.  201 

with  a  fierce  laugh;  "we  have  parchments  enough,  but  we 
never  pay.     Your  father's  agent  could  tell  you  that." 

Frederick  gave  no  seeming  attention  to  this  speech,  but 
went  on:  "When  I  say  there  is  nothing  in  our  power  we 
would  deem  enough,  I  but  express  the  feelings  of  my  father 
and  myself." 

"  There,  there,"  cried  Mark,  preventing  Herbert,  who 
was  about  to  reply,  "you've  said  far  more  than  was  needed 
for  a  wet  jacket  and  a  few  weeks*  low  diet.  Let  us  have 
a  word  about  the  poaching  you  spoke  of.'* 

His  fixed  and  steady  stare  —  the  rigid  brow  by  which 
these  words  were  accompanied  —  at  once  proclaimed  the  in- 
tention of  one  who  sought  reparation  for  an  insult,  and  so 
instantly  did  they  convey  the  sentiment  that  Travers,  in  a 
second,  forgot  all  about  his  mission,  and,  starting  to  his 
feet,  replied  in  a  whisper  audible  but  to  Mark,  — 

"True,  it  w^as  a  very  hazardous  guess;  but  when,  in 
England,  we  meet  with  a  fustian  jacket  and  a  broken  beaver 
in  company  with  a  gun  and  a  game-bag,  we  have  little  risk 
in  pronouncing  the  owner  a  gamekeeper  or  a  poacher." 

Mark  struck  his  gun  against  the  ground  with  such  vio- 
lence as  shivered  the  stock  from  the  barrel,  while  he  grasped 
the  corner  of  the  chimney-piece  convulsively  with  the  other 
hand.  It  seemed  as  if  passion  had  actually  paralyzed  him. 
As  he  stood  thus,  the  door  opened,  and  Kate  O'Donoghue 
entered.  She  was  dressed  in  the  becoming  half -toilette  of 
the  morning,  and  wore  on  her  head  one  of  those  caps  of 
blue  velvet,  embroidered  in  silver,  which  are  so  popular 
among  the  peasantry  of  Rhenish  Germany.  The  light  air- 
iness of  her  step  as  she  came  forward,  unconscious  of  a 
stranger's  presence,  displayed  her  figure  in  its  most  graceful 
character.  Suddenly  her  eyes  fell  upon  Frederick  Travers ; 
she  stopped  and  courtesied  low  to  him,  while  he,  thunder- 
struck with  amazement  at  recognizing  his  fellow-traveller 
so  unexpectedly,  could  scarcely  return  her  salute  with 
becoming  courtesy. 

"Mr.  Travers,**  said  Herbert,  after  waiting  in  vain  for 
Mark  to  speak,  — "Mr.  Travers  has  been  kind  enough  to 
come  and  inquire  after  me.  Miss  O'Donoghue,  sir;"  and 
the  boy,  with  much  bashfulness,  essayed,  in  some  sort,  the 
ceremony  of  introduction. 


202  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"My  cousin,  Mr.  Mark  O'Donoghue,"  said  Kate,  with  a 
graceful  movement  of  her  hand  towards  Mark,  whose  atti- 
tude led  her  to  suppose  he  was  not  known  to  Travers. 

"I  have  had  the  honor  of  presenting  m^^self  already," 
said  Frederick,  bowing;  but  Mark  responded  not  to  the 
inclination,  but  stood  still  with  bent  brow  and  clinched  lip, 
seemingly  unconscious  of  all  around  him,  while  Kate  seated 
herself,  and  motioned  to  Travers  to  resume  his  place.  She 
felt  how  necessary  it  was  that  she  should  atone,  by  her 
manner,  for  the  strange  rudeness  of  her  cousin's;  and  her 
mind  being  now  relieved  of  the  fear  which  first  struck  her, 
that  Frederick's  visit  might  be  intended  for  herself,  she 
launched  freely  and  pleasantly  into  conversation,  recurring 
to  the  incidents  of  the  late  journey,  and  the  fellow-travellers 
they  had  met  with. 

If  Kate  was  not  sorry  to  learn  that  the  Lodge  was 
tenanted  by  persons  of  such  condition  and  class  as  might 
make  them  agreeable  neighbors,  Travers,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  overjoyed  at  discovering  one  of  such  attractions  within 
an  easy  visiting  distance ;  while  Herbert  sat  by,  wondering 
how  persons  so  little  known  to  each  other  could  have  so 
many  things  to  say,  and  so  many  topics  which  seemed 
mutually  interesting.  For  so  it  is;  they  who  are  ignorant 
of  the  world  and  its  habits  can  scarcely  credit  the  great 
extent  of  those  generalities  which  form  food  for  daily  inter- 
course, nor  with  what  apparent  interest  people  can  play  the 
game  of  life  with  but  counterfeit  coinage.  He  listened  at 
first  with  astonishment,  and  afterwards  with  delight,  to  the 
pleasant  flippancy  of  each,  as  in  turn  they  discussed  scenes, 
and  pleasures,  and  people,  of  whom  he  never  so  much  as 
heard.  The  gentlllesse  ot  French  manner  —  would  that  we 
had  a  name  for  the  thing  in  English  —  imparted  to  Kate's 
conversation  a  graceful  ease  our  more  reserved  habits  rarely 
permit;  and  while  in  her  costume  and  her  carriage  there 
was  a  certain  coquetry  discernible,  not  a  particle  of  affecta- 
tion pervaded  either  her  opinions  or  expressions.  Travers, 
long  accustomed  to  the  best  society  of  London,  had  yet 
seen  scarcely  anything  of  the  fascination  of  foreign  agreea- 
bility,  and  yielded  himself  so  insensibly  to  its  charm  that 
an  hour  slipped  away  unconsciously,  and  he  totally  forgot 
the  great  object  of  his  visit,  and  lost  all  recollection  of  the 


A  DIPLOMATIST  DEFEATED.  203 

luckless  animal  be  had  attached  to  the  door-ring,  —  luck- 
less, indeed,  for  already  a  heavy  snowdrift  was  falling, 
and  the  day  had  assumed  all  the  appearance  of  severe 
winter. 

**You  cannot  go  now,  sir,"  said  Herbert,  as  Frederick 
rose  to  take  his  leave,  — "there  's  a  heavy  snow-storm  with- 
out ;  "  for  the  boy  was  so  interested  in  all  he  heard,  he  could 
not  endure  the  thought  of  his  departure. 

"Oh,  it 's  nothing,"  said  Travers,  lightly.  "There  's  an 
old  adage, — 'Snow  should  not  scare  a  soldier.'" 

"There  's  another  proverb  in  the  French  service,"  said 
Kate,  laughing,  as  she  pointed  to  the  blazing  hearth,  — 
"  '  Le  soldat  ne  tourue  pas  son  dos  au  feu.'  " 

"I  accept  the  augury,"  cried  Frederick,  laughing  heartily 
at  the  witty  misapplication  of  the  phrase,  and  resumed  his 
seat  once  more. 

"Cousin  Kate  plays  chess,"  said  Herbert,  in  his  anxiety 
to  suggest  a  plausible  pretext  for  delaying  Frederick's 
departure. 

"And  I  am  passionately  fond  of  the  game;  would  you 
favor  me  so  far?  " 

"With  pleasure,"  said  she,  smiling;  "I  only  ask  one 
condition, — point  de  grdce  :  no  giving  back,  —  the  O'Dono- 
ghues  never  take  or  give  quarter,  — isn't  that  so,  Mark? 
Oh,  he's  gone!"  And  now  for  the  first  time  it  was 
remarked  that  he  had  left  the  apartment. 

In  a  few  moments  after  they  had  drawn  the  little  mar- 
queterie  table  close  to  the  fire,  and  were  deeply  interested 
in  the  game. 

At  first  each  party  played  with  a  seeming  attention, 
which  certainly  imposed  on  Herbert,  who  sat  eagerly  watch- 
ing the  progress  of  the  game.  Frederick  Travers  was, 
however,  far  more  occupied  in  observing  his  antagonist, 
than  in  the  disposition  of  his  rooks  and  pawns.  While 
she,  soon  perceiving  his  inattention,  half  suspected  that  he 
did  not  deem  her  an  enemy  worth  exerting  his  skill  upon, 
and  thus,  partly  in  pique,  she  bestowed  more  watchfulness 
than  at  first. 

"So,  Mademoiselle,"  cried  Travers,  at  length,  recurring 
to  his  game,   "I  perceive  you  have  only  permitted  me  to 


204  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

advance  thus  far  to  cut  off  my  retreat  forever.  How  am  I 
to  save  myself  now  ? " 

"It 's  hard  to  say,  Sir  Captain.  It 's  the  old  tactique  of 
Celts  and  Saxons  on  both  sides.  You  would  advance  into 
the  heart  of  the  enemy's  country;  and  as,  unhappily,  the 
men  in  ivory  are  truer  than  the  natives  were  here,  and  won't 
take  bribes  to  fight  against  their  fellows,  you  must  e'en 
stand  or  fall  by  your  own  deservings." 

''Come,  then,  the  bold  policy  forever.     Check!  " 

"And  you  lose  your  castle." 

"And  you  youi*  bishop." 

"We  must  avenge  the  church,  sir.  Take  care  of  your 
queen." 

^^ Parhleu^  Mademoiselle,  you  are  a  fierce  foe!  What  say 
you  if  we  draw  the  battle?" 

"No,  no,  cousin  Kate;  continue,  and  you  win  it." 

"Be  it  so.  And  now  for  my  turn,"  said  Travers,  who 
was  really  a  first-rate  player,  and  at  length  began  to  feel 
interested  in  the  result. 

The  move  he  made  exhibited  so  much  of  skill  that  Kate 
foresaw  that  the  fortune  of  the  day  was  about  to  change. 
She  leaned  her  brow  upon  her  hand,  and  deliberated  long 
on  the  move ;  and  at  length,  lifting  her  head,  she  said : 

"I  should  like  much  to  beat  you, — but  in  fair  fight, 
remember;  no  courtesy  nor  favor." 

"I  can  spare  neither,"  said  Travers,  smiling. 

"Then  defeat  is  no  dishonor.     There  's  my  move." 

"And  mine,"  cried  Fred,  as  rapidly. 

"What  prevents  my  taking  you?      I  see  nothing." 

"Nor  I  either,"  said  he,  half  chagrined,  for  his  move  was 
an  oversight. 

"You  are  too  proud  to  ask  quarter,  —  of  course  you  are, 
or  I  should  say.  Take  it  back." 

"No,  Kate,  no,"  whispered  Herbert,  whose  excitement 
was  at  the  highest. 

"1  must  abide  my  fortune,"  said  Frederick,  bowing; 
"and  the  more  calmly,   as  I  have  won  the  game." 

' '  Won  the  game !     How  ?  —  where  ?  " 

"Check!" 

"How  tauntingly  he  says  it  now,"  said  Kate,  while  her 


A  DIPLOMATIST  DEFEATED.  205 

eyes  sparkled  brilliantly.  "There  is  too  much  of  the  con- 
queror in  all  that." 

Frederick's  glance  met  hers  at  the  instant,  and  her  cheek 
colored  deeply. 

Who  knows  the  source  of  such  emotions,  or  of  how  much 
pleasure  and  pain  they  are  made  up!  "And  yet  I  have  not 
won,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Then  be  it  a  drawn  battle,"  said  Kate.  "You  can 
afford  to  be  generous,  and  I  can't  bear  being  beaten;  that's 
the  truth  of  it." 

"If  I  could  but  win!  ''  muttered  Travers,  as  he  rose  from 
the  table;  and  whether  she  overheard  the  words,  and  that 
they  conveyed  more  than  a  mere  allusion  to  the  game,  she 
turned  hastily  away,  and  approached  the  window. 

"Is  that  snowball  your  horse.  Captain  Travers?"  said 
she,   with  a  wicked  smile. 

"My  father's  favorite  cob,  by  Jove!"  exclaimed  Fre- 
derick; and,  as  if  suddenly  aroused  to  the  memory  of  his 
lengthy  visit,  made  his  adieus  with  more  confusion  than 
was  exactly  suitable  to  a  fashionable  Guardsman  —  and 
departed. 

"I  like  him,"  said  Herbert,  as  he  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow after  him.     "Don't  you,  cousin  Kate?" 

But  cousin  Kate  did  not  reply. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

TEMPTATION    IX   A   WEAK   HOUR. 

When  Mark  O'Donoghue  left  the  room  his  passion  had 
become  almost  ungovernable,  —  the  entrance  of  his  cousin 
Kate  had  but  dammed  up  the  current  of  his  r.nger,  —  and, 
dui'ing  the  few  moments  he  still  remained  afterwards,  his 
temper  was  fiercely  tried  by  witnessing  the  courtesy  of  her 
manner  to  the  stranger,  and  the  apparent  intimacy  which 
subsisted  between  them.  ''I  ought  to  have  known  it,"  was 
the  expression  he  uttered  over  and  over  to  himself,  —  "I 
ought  to  have  known  it!  That  fellow's  gay  jacket  and 
plumed  hat  are  dearer  to  her  woman^s  heart  than  the  rude 
devotion  of  such  as  I  am.  Cm-ses  be  on  them !  they  carry 
persecution  through  everything,  —  house,  home,  country, 
rank,  wealth,  station,  —  ay,  the  very  affection  of  our  kin- 
dred they  grudge  us.  Was  slavery  ever  like  this  ?  "  And 
with  these  bitter  words,  the  offspring  of  bitterer  thoughts, 
he  strode  down  the  causeway,  and  reached  the  high  road. 
The  snow  was  falling  fast;  a  chilling  north  wind  drove  the 
thin  flakes  along,  but  he  heeded  it  not.  The  fire  of  anger  that 
burned  within  his  bosom  defied  all  sense  of  winter's  cold; 
and  with  a  thi'obbing  brow  and  fevered  hand  he  went,  turn- 
ing from  time  to  time  to  look  up  at  the  old  castle,  whence 
he  expected  each  moment  to  see  Travers  take  his  departure. 
Now  he  hurried  eagerly  onward,  as  if  to  reach  some  destined 
spot;  now  he  would  stop,  and  retrace  his  steps,  irresolutely, 
as  though  half  determined  to  retm-n  home. 

"Degraded,  insulted,  outraged  on  the  very  hearth  of  my 
father's  house!  "  cried  he,  aloud,  as  he  wrung  his  hands  in 
agony,  and  gave  his  passion  vent.  Again  he  pressed  for- 
ward, and  at  last  arrived  at  that  part  of  the  glen  where  the 


TEMPTATION  IN  A   WEAK   HOUR.  207 

road  seems  escarped  between  the  two  mountains,  which  rise 
several  hundred  feet,  like  walls,  on  either  side.  Here  he 
paused,  and  after  examining  the  spot  for  some  seconds,  he 
muttered  to  himself,  "  He  has  no  choice  here  but  stand  or 
turn !  "  And  so  saying,  he  drew  from  the  breast  of  his  coat 
two  pistols,  examined  the  priming  of  each,  and  then  re- 
placed them.  The  prospect  of  speedy  revenge  seemed  to 
have  calmed  his  \nndictive  spirit;  for  now  he  continued  to 
walk  backwards  and  forwards,  at  a  slow  pace,  like  a  sen- 
tinel on  his  post,  pausing  occasionally  to  listen  if  a  horse's 
hoofs  could  be  heard  upon  the  road,  and  then  resuming  his 
walk  once  more.  A  rustling  sound  in  the  brushwood  above 
his  head  once  startled  him,  but  the  granite  cliffs  that  over- 
hung the  road  prevented  his  seeing  from  what  it  proceeded, 
and  his  heart  was  now  bent  on  a  very  different  object  than 
the  pursuit  of  the  deer.  At  that  moment  the  proudest  of 
the  herd  might  have  grazed  in  safety  within  pistol-shot  of 
him,  and  he  had  not  deigned  to  notice  it.  Thus  passed  an 
hour ;  a  second  and  a  third  succeeded,  —  and  already  the 
dull  shadows  of  approaching  night  were  falling,  yet  no  one 
came.  Tortured  with  strange  conjectures,  Mark  saw  the 
day  waning,  and  jQt  no  sight  nor  sound  of  him  he  looked 
for.  Let  not  poets  speak  of  the  ardent  longing  of  a  lover's 
heart,  as  in  thi'obbing  eagerness  he  waits  for  her  whose 
smile  is  life,  and  hope,  and  heaven.  Compared  with  the 
mad  impatience  of  him  who  thirsts  for  vengeance,  his  pas- 
sion is  but  sluggish  apath3\  It  is  the  bad  that  ever  calls 
forth  the  sternest  energies  of  human  nature.  It  is  in  crime 
that  men  ti*anscend  the  common  attributes  of  mankind. 
Here  was  one,  now,  who  would  have  given  his  right  hand 
beneath  the  axe  for  but  one  brief  moment  of  vengeance,  and 
have  deemed  years  of  suffering  cheaply  bought  for  the  mere 
presence  of  his  enemy  before  him. 

"He  must  have  guessed  my  meaning  when  I  left  the 
room,"  was  the  taunting  expression  he  now  uttered,  as  his 
unsated  anger  took  the  shape  of  an  insolent  depreciation  of 
his  adversary.  "An  Irishman  would  not  need  a  broader 
hint." 

It  grew  darker;  the  mountains  frowned  heavily  beneath 
the  canopy  of  clouds,  and  night  was  rapidly  approaching. 


208  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

when,  from  the  gloom  of  his  almost  extinguished  hope, 
Mark  was  suddenly  aroused.  He  heard  the  tramp  of  a 
horse's  feet;  the  dull  reverberation  on  the  deep  snow  filled 
the  air,  and  sometimes  they  seemed  to  come  from  the  oppo- 
site part  of  the  glen,  when  the  pace  slackened,  and  at  last 
the  sounds  became  almost  inaudible. 

"There  is  yet  enough  of  daylight  if  we  move  into  the 
broad  road,"  was  Mark's  soliloquy,  as  he  stooped  his  ear  to 
listen;  and  at  the  instant  he  beheld  a  man  leading  his 
horse  by  the  bridle,  while  he  himself  seemed  seeking  along 
the  roadside,  where  the  snowdrift  had  not  yet  fallen,  as  if 
for  some  lost  object.  A  glance,  even  by  the  imperfect 
light,  and  at  some  thirty  paces  off,  showed  Mark  it  was  not 
him  he  sought,  and  were  it  not  that  the  attitude  attracted 
his  curiosity,  he  had  not  wasted  a  second  look  on  him ;  but 
the  horseman  by  this  time  had  halted,  and  was  scraping 
with  his  whip-handle  amid  the  pebbles  of  the  mountain 
rivulet. 

"I'll  never  see  it  again;  it's  no  use! "  was  the  exclama- 
tion of  the  seeker,  as  he  gathered  up  his  reins  and  prepared 
to  mount. 

"Is  that  Lanty  Lawler ?  "  cried  Mark,  as  he  recognized 
the  voice.  "I  say,  did  you  meet  with  a  young  officer  riding 
down  the  glen,  in  the  direction  of  Carrignacurra  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Mr.  Mark ;  I  never  saw  living  thing  since 
I  left  Bantry." 

The  young  man  paused  for  a  few  seconds ;  and  then,  as 
if  anxious  to  turn  all  thought  from  his  question,  said, 
"What  have  you  lost  thereabouts?" 

"Oh,  more  than  I  am  worth  in  the  world!"  was  the 
answer,  in  a  deep,  heart-drawn  sigh;  "but,  blessed  Heaven! 
what's  the  pistols  for?  Oh,  Master  Mark,  dear  —  sure  — 
sure  —  " 

"Sure  what?"  cried  the  youth,  with  a  hoarse  laugh; 
"sure  I 'm  not  turned  highway  robber!  Is  that  what  you 
want  to  say?  Make  your  mind  easy,  Lanty,  I  have  not 
reached  that  point  yet ;  though,  if  indifference  to  life  might 
tempt  a  man,   I'd  not  say  it  is  so  far  off." 

"'Tis  a  duel,  then,"  cried  Lanty,  quickly;  "but  I  hope 
you  would  n't  fight  without  seconds.     Oh,  that 's  dowm-ight 


TEMPTATION  IN  A  WEAK  HOUR.  209 

murder!  What  did  be  do  to  you?  Was  it  one  of  the 
fellows  you  met  in  Cork  ?  '* 

"You  are  all  wrong,"  said  Mark,  sullenly.  "It  is 
enough,  however,  that  neither  of  us  seem  to  have  found 
what  he  was  seeking.     You  have  your  secret;  I  have  mine." 

"Oh,  faix,  mine  is  soon  told:  'twas  my  pocket-book, 
with  as  good  as  seventy  pounds  in  goold,  I  lost  here  a  three 
weeks  ago,  and  never  set  eyes  on  it  since;  and  there  was 
papers  in  it,  —  ay,  faix,  papers  of  gi'eat  value,  —  and  I 
dare  n't  face  Father  Luke  without  them.  I  may  leave  the 
country  when  he  hears  what  happened." 

"Where  are  you  going  now?  "  said  Mark,  gloomily. 

"I  'm  going  as  far  as  Mary's,  for  the  night.  Maybe 
you'd  step  down  there,  and  take  a  bit  of  supper?  When 
the  moon  rises  the  night  will  take  up  fine." 

The  young  man  turned  w^ithout  speaking,  and  bent  his 
steps  in  the  direction  Lanty  was  travelling. 

The  horse-dealer  was  too  well  versed  in  human  nature  to 
press  for  a  confidence  which  he  foresaw  would  be  at  last 
willingly  extended  to  him;  he  therefore  walked  along  at 
Mark's  side,  without  uttering  a  word,  and  seeming  to  be 
absorbed  in  his  own  deep  musings.  His  calculation  was  a 
correct  one.  They  had  not  gone  many  paces  forward  when 
young  O'Donoghue  unburdened  his  whole  heart  to  him:  told 
him,  with  all  the  eloquent  energy  of  a  wounded  spirit,  of 
the  insult  he  had  received  in  his  own  home,  before  his 
younger  brother's  face.  He  omitted  nothing  in  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  overbearing  impertinence  of  Frederick  Travers's 
manner ;  with  what  cool  assurance  he  had  entered  the  house, 
and  with  what  flippant  carelessness  he  treated  his  cousin 
Kate. 

'"I  left  home  with  an  oath  not  to  return  thither  un- 
avenged," said  he;  "nor  will  I,  though  this  time  luck 
seems  against  me.  Had  he  but  come,  I  should  have  given 
him  his  choice  of  pistols  and  his  own  distance.  My  hand 
is  true  from  five  paces  to  thirty.  But  he  has  not  escaped 
me  yet." 

Lanty  never  interrupted  the  narrative,  except  to  ask  from 
time  to  time  some  question,  the  answer  to  which  was  cer- 
tain to  develop  the  deeper  indignation  of  the  youth.     A 

VOL.    I.  — 14 


210  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

low,  muttering  commentary,  intended  to  mean  a  heartfelt 
sympathy  with  his  wrongs,  was  all  he  suffered  to  escape  his 
lips;  and,  thus  encouraged  in  his  passionate  vehemence, 
Mark's  wrath  became  like  a  frenzy. 

"Come  in,  now,"  said  Lanty,  as  he  halted  at  the  door  of 
Mary's  cabin,  "but  don't  say  a  word  about  this  business. 
I  have  a  thought  in  my  head  that  may  do  you  good  service, 
but  keep  a  fair  face  before  people.     Do  you  mind  me  ?  " 

There  was  a  tone  of  mystery  and  secrecy  in  these  words 
Mark  could  not  penetrate;  but,  however  dark  their  mean- 
ing, they  seemed  to  promise  some  hope  of  that  revenge  his 
heart  yearned  after,  and  with  this  trust  he  entered  the 
house. 

Mary  received  them  with  her  wonted  hospitality,  —  Lanty 
was  an  expected  guest,  —  and  showed  how  gratified  she  felt 
to  have  j^oung  O'Donoghue  beneath  her  roof. 

"I  was  afeard  you  were  forgetting  me  entirely,  Mr. 
Mark,"  said  she;  "you  passed  the  door  twice,  and  never 
as  much  as  said,  'God  save  you,  Mary.'  " 

"I  did  not  forget  you,  for  all  that,  Mary,"  said  he,  feel- 
ingly. "  I  have  too  few  friends  in  the  world  to  spare  any 
of  them;  but  I  've  had  many  things  on  my  mind  lately." 

"Well,  and  to  be  sure  you  had,  and  why  wouldn't  you? 
'T  is  no  shame  of  you  to  be  sad  and  down-hearted ;  an 
O'Donoghue  of  the  ould  stock,  the  best  blood  in  Kerry, 
wandering  about  by  himself,  instead  of  being  followed  by 
a  troop  of  servants,  with  a  goold  coat-of-arms  worked  on 
their  coats,  like  your  grandfather's  men,  —  the  heavens  be 
his  bed !  Thirty-eight  mounted  men,  armed,  —  ay,  and  well 
armed,  —  were  in  the  saddle  after  him,  the  day  the  English 
general  came  down  here  to  see  the  troops  that  was  quartered 
at  Bantry." 

"No  wonder  we  should  go  afoot  now,"  said  Mark, 
bitterly. 

"Well,  well,  it 's  the  will  of  God,"  ejaculated  Mary, 
piously;  "and  who  knows  what's  in  store  for  you  yet?" 

"That 's  the  very  thing  I  do  be  telling  him,"  said  Lanty, 
who  only  waited  for  the  right  moment  to  chime  in  with  the 
conversation.     "There's  fine  times  coming." 

Mary  stared  at  the  speaker  with  the  eager  look  of  one 


TEMPTATION  IN  A  WEAK  HOUR.  211 

who  wished  to  derive  a  meaning  deeper  than  the  mere 
words  seemed  to  convey,  and  then,  checking  her  curiosity 
at  a  gesture  from  Lanty,  she  set  about  arranging  the  supper, 
which  only  awaited  his  arrival. 

Mark  ate  but  little  of  the  fare  before  him,  though  Mary  s 
cookery  was  not  without  its  temptations ;  but  of  the  wine  — 
and  it  was  strong  Burgundy  —  he  drank  freely.  Goblet 
after  goblet  he  drained  with  that  craving  desire  to  allay  a 
thirst,  which  is  rather  the  symptom  of  a  mind  fevered  by 
passion  than  by  malady.  Still,  as  he  drank,  no  sign  of 
intoxication  appeared;  on  the  contrary,  his  words  evinced 
a  tone  of  but  deeper  resolution,  and  a  more  settled  purpose 
than  at  first,  when  he  told  how  he  had  promised  never  to 
leave  his  father,  although  all  his  hopes  pointed  to  the  glori- 
ous career  a  foreign  service  would  open  before  him. 

''It  was  a  good  vow  you  made,  and  may  the  saints  enable 
you  to  keep  it !  "  said  Mary. 

"And  for  the  matter  of  glory,  maj^be  there  's  some  to  be 
got  nearer  home,  and  without  travelling  to  look  for  it," 
interposed  Lanty. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Mark,  eagerly. 

"Fill  your  glass.  Take  the  big  one,  for  it  *s  a  toast 
I  'm  going  to  give  you.  Are  you  ready?  Here  now,  then  — 
drink,  — 

"*  A  stout  heart  and  mind. 
And  an  easterly  wind. 
And  the  Devil  behind 
The  Saxon.' " 

Mark  repeated  the  doggerel  as  well  as  he  was  able,  and 
pledged  the  only  sentiment  he  could  divine,  —  that  of  the 
latter  part,  —  with  all  his  enthusiasm. 

"You  may  tell  him  what  you  plaze,  now,"  whispered 
Mary,  in  Lanty*s  ear;  for  her  ready  wit  perceived  that  his 
blood  was  warmed  by  the  wine,  and  his  heart  open  for  any 
communication. 

Lanty  hesitated  but  a  second,  then,  drawing  his  chair 
close  to  Mark's,  he  said,  — 

"  I  'm  going  now  to  put  my  life  in  your  hands,  but  I 
can't  help  it.     When  L.'eland  is  about  to  strike  for  liberty, 


212  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

it  is  not  an  O'Donoghue  should  be  last  in  the  ranks. 
Swear  to  me  you  '11  never  mention  again  what  I  '11  tell  you, 

—  swear  it  on  the  book."  Mary,  at  the  same  moment, 
placed  in  his  hand  a  breviary,  with  a  gilt  cross  on  the 
binding,  which  Mark  took  reverently,  and  kissed  twice. 
^'That's  enough;  your  word  would  do  for  me,  but  I  must 
obey  them  that's  over  me."  And  so  saying,  Lanty  at  once 
proceeded  to  lay  before  the  astonished  mind  of  young 
O'Donoghue  the  plan  of  France  for  an  invasion  of  Ii'eland, 

—  not  vaguely  nor  imperfectly,  not  in  the  mere  language 
of  rumor  or  chance  allusion,  but  with  such  aids  to  circum- 
stance and  time,  as  gave  him  the  appearance  of  one  con- 
versant with  what  he  spoke  on.  The  restoration  of  Irish 
independence,  the  resumption  of  forfeited  estates,  the  return 
of  the  real  nobility  of  the  land  to  their  long-lost  position  of 
eminence  and  influence,  were  themes  he  descanted  upon 
with  consummate  skill,  bringing  home  each  fact  to  the 
actual  effect  such  changes  would  work  in  the  youth's  own 
condition,  who,  no  longer  degraded  to  the  rank  of  a  mere 
peasant,  would  once  again  assert  his  own  rightful  station, 
and  stand  forth  at  the  head  of  his  vast  property,  —  the  heir 
of  an  honored  name  and  house.  Lanty  knew  well,  and 
more,  too,  implicitly  believed  in  all  the  plausible  preten- 
sion of  French  sympathy  for  Irish  suffering,  which  formed 
the  cant  of  the  day.  He  had  often  heard  the  arguments  in 
favor  of  the  success  of  such  an  expedition,  —  in  fact,  the 
reasons  for  which  its  failure  was  deemed  impossible. 
These  he  repeated  fluently,  giving  to  his  narrative  the  sem- 
blance of  an  incontestable  statement,  and  then  he  told 
him  that  from  Brest  to  Dublin  was  "  fifty  hours'  sail,  with  a 
fair  breeze,"  —  that  same  ''easterly  wind"  the  toast  alluded 
to;  that  the  French  could  thi'ow  thirty,  nay  fifty  thousand 
troops  into  Ireland,  yet  never  weaken  their  own  army  to 
any  extent  worth  speaking  of;  that  England  was  dis- 
tracted by  party  spirit,  impoverished  by  debt,  and  totally 
unable  to  repel  invasion ;  and,  in  fact,  that  if  Ireland  would 
be  but  "true  to  herself,"  her  success  was  assured. 

He  told,  too,  how  Irishmen  were  banded  together  in  a 
sworn  union  to  assert  the  independence  of  their  country, 
and  that  such  as  held  back,  or  were  reluctant  in  the  cause, 


TEMPTATION  IN  A   WEAK   HOUR. 


213 


would  meet  the  fate  of  eDemies.  On  the  extent  and  com- 
pleteness of  the  organization  he  dwelt  with  a  proud  satis- 
faction ;  but  when  he  spoke  of  large  masses  of  men  trained 
to  move  and  act  together,  Mark  suddenly  interrupted  him, 
saying,  — 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  them.     It 's    not  a  week  since  some 
hundreds  marched  through  this  glen  at  midnight." 


"Ay,  that  was  Holt's  party,"  said  Mary,  composedly; 
*'and  fine  men  the}"  are." 

"They  were  unarmed,"  said  Mark. 

"If  they  were,  it  is  because  the  general  did  n't  want  their 
weapons." 

"There's  arms  enough  to  be  had  when  the  time  comes 
for  using  them,"  broke  in  Mary. 

"Wouldn't  you  show  him  —  "  and  Lanty  hesitated  to 
conclude  a  speech,  the  imprudence  of  which  he  was  already 
aware  of. 

"Ay  will  I,"  said   Mary.     "I  never  mistrusted   one  of 


OF    THE  ^ 

UNIVERSITY 


214  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

his  name ;  "  and  with  that  she  rose  from  the  fireside,  and 
took  a  candle  in  her  hand.  "  Come  here  a  minute,  Master 
Mark."  Unlocking  a  small  door  in  the  back  wall  of  the 
cabin,  she  entered  a  narrow  passage  which  led  to  the  stable, 
but  off  which  a  narrow  door,  scarcely  distinguishable  from 
the  wall,  conducted  into  a  spacious  vault  excavated  in  the 
solid  rock.  Here  were  a  vast  number  of  packing-cases  and 
boxes,  piled  on  each  other,  from  floor  to  roof,  together  with 
hogsheads  and  casks  of  every  shape  and  size.  Some  of  the 
boxes  had  been  opened,  and  the  lids  laid  loosely  over  them. 
Removing  one  of  these,  Mary  pointed  to  the  contents,  as 
she  said,  — 

"There  they  are,  —  French  muskets  and  carbines. 
There's  pistols  in  that  case;  and  all  them,  over  there,  is 
swords  and  cutlasses.  'T  is  pike-heads  that 's  in  the  other 
corner;  and  the  casks  has  saddles  and  holsters  and  them 
kind  of  things." 

Mark  stooped  down  and  took  up  one  of  the  muskets.  It 
was  a  light  and  handy  weapon,  and  bore  on  its  stock  the 
words, — "Armee  de  Sambre-et-Meuse,"  for  none  of  the 
weapons  were  new. 

"These  are  all  French,"  said  he,  after  a  brief  pause. 

"Every  one  of  them,"  replied  Mary,  proudly;  "and 
there's  more  coming  from  the  same  place." 

"And  why  can  we  not  fight  our  own  battles  without  aid 
from  France?"  said  Mark,  boldly.  "If  we  really  are 
worthy  of  independence,  are  we  not  able  to  win  it?  " 

"Because  there  's  traitors  among  us,"  said  Mary,  reply- 
ing before  Lanty  could  interpose;  "because  there  's  traitors 
that  would  turn  again  us  if  we  were  not  sure  of  victory: 
but  when  they  see  we  have  the  strong  hand  as  well  as  the 
good  cause,  they  '11  be  sure  to  stand  on  the  safe  side.'* 

"I  don't  care  for  that,"  said  Mark.  "I  want  no  such 
allies  as  these.  I  say,  if  we  deserve  our  liberty,  we  ought 
to  be  strong  enough  to  take  it." 

"There  's  many  think  the  same  way  as  yourself,"  said 
Lanty,  quietly.  "I  heard  the  very  words  you  said  from 
one  of  the  delegates  last  week.  But  I  don't  see  any  harm 
in  getting  help  from  a  friend  when  the  odds  is  against 
you." 


TEMPTATION  IN  A   WEAK  HOUR.  215 

"But  I  do,  and  great  harm,  too.  "What's  the  price  of  the 
assistance?  —  tell  me  that." 

"Oh,  make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score.  The  French 
hate  the  English,  whether  they  love  us  or  no." 

"And  why  would  n't  they  love  us,"  said  Mary,  half  angry 
at  such  a  supposition,  "and  we  all  Catholics?  Don't  we 
both  belong  to  the  ould  ancient  church?  and  didn't  we 
swear  to  destroy  the  heretics  wherever  we  'd  find  them? 
Ay,  and  we  will,  too !  " 

"I  'm  with  you,  whatever  comes  of  it,"  said  Mark,  after 
a  few  seconds  of  thought.  "I  'm  with  you;  and  if  the  rest 
have  as  little  to  live  for,  trust  me,  they  '11  not  be  pleasant 
adversaries." 

Overjoyed  at  this  bold  avowal,  which  consummated  the 
success  they  desired,  they  led  Mark  back  into  the  cabin, 
and  pledged,  in  a  bumper,  the  "raal  O'Donoghue.'* 


CHAPTER   XXL 

THE   RETURN    OF    THE    ENVOY. 

Sir  Marmaduke  Travers  and  his  daughter  had  passed  a 
morning  of  great  uneasiness  at  the  delay  in  Frederick's 
return.  Noon  came,  and  yet  no  appearance  of  him.  They 
wandered  along  the  road,  hoping  to  meet  him,  and  at  last 
turned  homeward,  with  the  intention  of  despatching  a  ser- 
vant towards  Carrignacurra,  fearing  lest  he  should  have 
missed  his  way.  This  determination,  however,  they  aban- 
doned, on  being  told  by  a  countryman  that  he  had  seen  the 
horse  young  Travers  rode  still  standing  at  the  gate  of  the 
"castle." 

A  feeling  of  curiosity  to  hear  his  son's  account  of  the 
O'Donoghues  mingled  with  the  old  man's  excitement  at  his 
absence;  and  as  the  day  declined,  and  still  no  sign  of  his 
return,  he  walked  every  now  and  then  to  the  door,  and 
looked  anxiously  along  the  road  by  which  he  expected  his 
approach.  S3^bella,  too,  was  not  without  her  fears,  and 
though  vague  and  undefined,  she  dreaded  a  possible  colli- 
sion between  the  hot  blood  of  Mark  and  her  brother.  The 
evening  of  her  first  arrival  was  ever  present  to  her  mind, 
and  she  often  thought  of  what  might  have  then  occurred 
had  Frederick  been  present. 

They  had  wearied  themselves  with  every  mode  of  ac- 
counting for  his  delay,  guessed  at  every  possible  cause  of 
detention,  and  were  at  length  on  the  point  of  sending  a 
messenger  in  search  of  him,  when  they  heard  the  tramp  of 
a  horse  coming,  not  along  the  high  road,  but,  as  it  seemed, 
over  the  fields  in  front  of  them.  A  few  minutes  more  of 
anxious  expectancy,  and  Frederick,  with  his  horse  splashed 
and  panting,   alighted  beside  them. 

"Well,  you  certainly  have  a  very  pretty  eye  for  a  coun- 
try, father,"  said  he,  gayly.     "That  same  line  you  advised 


THE   RETURN   OF   THE   ENVOY.  217 

has  got  three  as  rasping  fences  as  I  should  like  to  meet 
with  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  boy?"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  as 
much  puzzled  at  the  speech  as  the  reader  himself  may  feel. 

"  Simply,  sir,  that  though  the  cob  is  a  capital  horse,  and 
has  a  great  jump  in  him,  I  'd  rather  have  daylight  for  that 
kind  of  thing ;  and  I  really  believe  the  ragged  fellow  j^ou 
sent  for  me  chose  the  stift'est  places.  I  saw  the  rascal 
grinning  when  I  was  coming  up  to  the  mill-stream." 

"Messenger!  —  ragged  fellow!     The  boy  is  dreaming." 

"My  dear  Frederick,  we  sent  no  messenger.  We  were, 
indeed,  very  anxious  at  your  delay,  but  we  did  not  despatch 
any  one  to  meet  you." 

Frederick  stared  at  both  the  speakers,  and  then  repeated, 
in  astonishment,  the  last  words,  —  "Sent  no  messenger!  " 
but  when  they  once  more  assured  him  of  the  fact,  he  gave 
the  following  account  of  his  return :  — 

"It  was  very  late  when  I  left  the  castle.  I  delayed  there 
the  whole  day;  but  scarcely  had  I  reached  the  high  road, 
when  a  wild-looking  fellow,  with  a  great  pole  in  his  hand, 
came  up  to  me,  and  cried  out,  — 

"'Are  you  for  the  Lodge?'  'Yes,'  said  he,  answering 
for  himself,  'you  are  her  brother.  I  'm  sent  over  to  tell 
you  not  to  go  back  by  the  road,  for  the  bridge  is  down; 
but  you  're  to  come  over  the  fields,  and  I  '11  show  you  the 
way.' 

"  Supposing  the  fellow  was  what  he  assumed  to  be,  your 
messenger,  I  followed  him;  and,  by  George,  it  was  no 
joking  matter;  for  he  leaped  like  a  deer,  and  seemed  to  take 
uncommon  pleasure  in  pitting  himself  against  the  cob.  I 
should  have  given  up  the  contest,  I  confess,  but  that  the 
knave  had  me  in  his  power.  For  when  it  grew  dark,  I  knew 
not  which  way  to  head,  until,  at  length,  he  shouted  out,  — 

"  'There  's  the  Lodge  now,  where  you  see  the  light.'  And 
after  that,  what  became  of  himself  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"It  was  Terry,  poor  Terry,"  cried  Sybella. 

"Yes,  it  must  have  been  Terry,"  echoed  her  father. 

"And  is  this  Terry  retained  to  play  Will-o'-the-wisp?" 
asked  Fred;  "or  is  it  a  piece  of  amateurship?  " 

But  both  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Sybella  were   too  deeply 


218  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

engaged  in  canvassing  the  motive  for  this  strange  act  to 
pay  due  attention  to  his  question. 

As  Frederick  was  but  little  interested  in  his  guide,  nor 
mindful  of  what  became  of  him,  they  were  not  able  to 
obtain  any  clew  from  him  as  to  what  road  he  took,  nor 
what  chance  there  was  of  overtaking  him. 

"So,  then,  this  was  a  piece  of  politesse  for  which  I  am 
indebted  to  your  friend  Terry's  own  devising,"  said  Fred, 
half  angrily.  ''  The  fellow  had  better  keep  out  of  my  way 
in  future." 

"  You  will  not  harm  him,  Fred,  you  never  could,  when  I 
tell  you  of  his  gallant  conduct  here." 

"My  sweet  sister,  I  am  really  wearied  of  this  eternal 
theme.  I  have  heard  of  nothing  but  heroism  since  my 
arrival.  Once  for  all,  I  concede  the  matter,  and  am  willing 
to  believe  of  the  Irish,  as  of  the  family  of  Bayard,  that  all 
the  men  are  brave,  and  all  the  women  virtuous.  And 
now,  let  us  to  dinner." 

"You  have  told  us  nothing  of  your  visit  to  the  enchanted 
castle,  Fred,"  said  his  sister,  when  the  servants  had  with- 
drawn, and  they  were  once  more  alone ;  "  and  I  am  all  im' 
patience  to  hear  of  your  adventures  there." 

*'I  confess,  too,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  "I  am  not  devoid 
of  curiosity  on  the  subject;  let  us  hear  it  all." 

"I  have  little  to  recount,"  said  Frederick,  with  some 
hesitation  in  his  manner;  "I  neither  saw  the  O'Donoghue, 
as  they  call  him,  nor  his  brother-in-law;  the  one  was  in 
bed,  and  the  other  had  gone  to  visit  some  sick  person  on 
the  mountain.  But  I  made  acquaintance  with  your  preux 
chevalier^  Sybella,  —  a  fine-looking  young  fellow,  even 
though  wasted  with  sickness;  he  was  there  with  an  elder 
brother,  an  insolent  kind  of  personage,  —  half  peasant,  all 
bully." 

"He  was  not  wanting  in  proper  respect  to  you^''  said  Sir 
Marmaduke.  "I  trust,  Fred,  he  was  aware  of  who  you 
were?  " 

"Faith,  sir,  I  fancy  he  cared  very  little  on  the  subject; 
and  had  I  been  a  much  more  important  individual,  he 
would  have  treated  me  in  the  same  way,  —  a  way,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  not  overburdened  with  courtesy." 


THE   RETURN  OF   THE   ENVOY.  219 

"Had  you  any  words  together,  boy?"  said  Sir  Marma- 
duke,  with  an  evident  anxiety  in  his  look  and  voice. 

"A  mere  interchange  of  greeting,"  replied  Fred,  laugh- 
ing, "in  which  each  party  showed  his  teeth,  and  did  not 
bite  withal.  I  unhappily  mistook  him  for  a  gamekeeper, 
and,  worse  still,  told  him  so,  and  he  felt  proportionably 
angry  at  the  imputation,  preferring,  probably,  to  be  thought 
a  poacher.  He  is  a  rude,  coarse  fellow,"  said  he,  with  a 
changed  voice,  "with  pride  to  be  a  gentleman,  but  not 
breeding  nor  manner  to  enact  the  character." 

"The  visit  was,  after  all,  not  an  agreeable  one,"  said 
Miss  Travers,  "and  I  am  only  surprised  how  you  came  to 
prolong  it.  You  spent  the  whole  day  there." 
*  Although  there  was  not  the  slightest  degree  of  suspicion 
insinuated  by  this  remark,  Fred  stole  a  quick  glance  at  his 
sister,  to  see  if  she  really  intended  more  than  the  mere 
words  implied.  Then,  satisfied  that  she  had  not,  he  said, 
in  a  carelesss  way,  — 

"Oh,  the  weather  broke.  It  came  on  a  heavy  snow- 
storm; and  as  the  younger  brother  pressed  me  to  remain, 
and  I  had  no  fancy  to  face  the  hurricane,  I  sat  down  to  a 
game  of  chess." 

"Chess!  Indeed,  Fred,  that  sounds  very  humanizing. 
And  how  did  he  play?" 

"It  was  not  with  him  I  played,"  answered  he,  hesitat- 
ingly. 

' '  What  —  with  the  elder  ?  " 

"No,  nor  him  either;  my  antagonist  was  a  cousin, — I 
think  they  called  her  cousin." 

"Call  Aer,"  said  Sybella,  slyly.  "So,  then.  Master 
Fred,  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case.  Well,  we  certainly 
have  been  a  long  while  coming  to  her." 

"Yes,  she  has  lately  arrived  —  a  day  or  two  ago  —  from 
some  convent  in  the  Low  Countries,  where  she  has  lived 
since  she  was  a  child." 

"A  strange  home  for  her,"  interposed  Sir  Marmaduke. 
"If  I  do  not  misconceive  them  greatly,  they  must  be  very 
unsuitable  associates  for  a  young  lady  educated  in  a  French 
convent." 

"So  you  would  say  if  you  saw  her,"  said  Fred,  seizing 


220  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

with  avidity  at  the  opeDing  then  offered  to  coincide  with 
an  opinion  he  was  half  afraid  to  broach.  "She  is  perfectly 
foreign  in  look,  dress,  and  demeanor,  —  with  all  the  man- 
nerism of  Paris  life,  graceful  and  pleasing  in  her  address; 
and  they,  at  least  one  of  them,  a  downright  boor ;  the  other, 
giving  him  credit  for  good  looks  and  good  nature,  yet 
Immeasurably  her  inferior  in  every  respect." 

"Is  she  pretty,  Frederick?"  said  Sybella,  not  lifting  her 
eyes  from  her  work  as  she  spoke. 

"I  should  say  pretty,'*  replied  he,  with  hesitation^  as  if 
qualifying  his  praise  by  a  word  which  did  not  imply  too 
much.  "I  prefer  a  quieter  style  of  beauty,  for  my  own 
part, — less  dazzle,  less  sparkling  effect;  something  to  see 
every  day,  and  to  like  the  better  the  more  one  sees  it ; "  and 
he  placed  his  arm  around  his  sister's  waist,  and  gazed  at 
her,    as  if  to  give  interpretation  to  his  speech. 

"You  have  made  me  quite  curious  to  see  her,  Fred," 
said  Sybella.  "The  very  fact  of  finding  one  like  her  in 
such  a  place  has  its  interest." 

"What  if  you  were  to  visit  her,  my  dear?  "  said  Sir 
Marmaduke;  "the  attention  would  only  be  a  proper  one. 
You  have  books  and  music  here,  besides,  which  she  might 
be  glad  to  have  in  a  region  so  remote  as  this." 

Frederick  never  spoke  a  word,  but  anxiously  awaited  his 
sister's  answer. 

"I  should  like  it  greatly;  what  says  Fred  to  the  notion?'* 

"I  see  nothing  against  it,"  replied  he,  with  a  well- 
affected  indifference.  "She  is  a  most  ladylike  person,  and 
if  it  be  your  own  intention  to  pass  a  few  weeks  longer  in 
this  solitude,  would  be  of  infinite  value  for  companionship." 

"A  few  weeks  longer! — I  shall  remain  till  Christmas, 
boy,"  said  his  father,  with  determination.  "I  have  taken 
a  fancy  to  Ireland ;  and  my  intention  is  to  go  up  to  Dublin 
for  a  few  months  in  winter,  and  return  here  in  the  spring." 

This  was  at  once  approaching  the  very  subject  which 
Frederick  had  journeyed  to  determine;  but  whether  it  was 
that  the  time  seemed  unfavorable,  or  that  his  own  ideas  in 
the  matter  had  undergone  some  modification  since  his 
arrival,  he  contented  himself  with  simply  a  doubtful  shake 
of  the  head,   as  if  distrusting  Sir  Marmaduke's  firmness,- 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ENVOY.         221 

and  did  not  endeavor  to  oppose  his  determination  by  a 
single  argument  of  any  kind.  On  tlie  contrary,  he  listened 
with  patience  and  even  seeming  interest  to  his  father's 
detailed  account  of  his  project;  how  he  had  already  given 
orders  to  secure  a  house  in  Stephen's  Green  for  the  winter, 
intending  to  make  acquaintances  with  the  gentry  of  the 
capital,  and  present  himself  and  his  daughter  at  the  vice- 
regal court. 

*'Sybella  may  as  well  make  her  debut  in  society  here  as 
in  London,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke.  "Indeed,  I  am  not 
sure  but  the  provincial  boards  are  the  best  for  a  first  ap- 
pearance. In  any  case,  such  is  the  line  I  have  laid  down 
for  myself ;  and  if  it  only  secured  me  against  a  sea  voyage 
to  England  in  such  a  season,  I  shall  be  amply  repaid  for 
my  resolve." 

Against  the  season  of  his  return,  too.  Sir  Marmaduke 
hoped  to  make  such  additions  to  the  Lodge  as  should  render 
it  more  comfortable  as  a  residence ;  various  plans  for  which 
were  heaped  upon  the  library  table,  and  littered  the  chairs 
about  the  room. 

Miss  Txavers  had  already  given  her  hearty  concurrence 
to  all  her  father's  schemes,  and  seconded  most  ably  every 
one  of  his  views  by  such  arguments  as  she  was  possessed  of; 
so  that  Frederick,  even  if  disposed  to  record  his  opposition, 
saw  that  the  present  was  not  an  opportune  moment,  and 
prudently  reserved  for  another  time  what,  if  unsuccessful 
now,  could  never  be  recurred  to  with  advantage. 

The  conversation  on  these  topics  lasted  long.  They  dis- 
cussed with  interest  every  detail  of  their  plans;  for  so  it  is, 
the  pleasures  of  castle-building  are  inexhaustible,  and  the 
very  happiest  realities  of  life  are  poor  and  vague  compared 
with  the  resources  provided  by  our  hopes  and  fancies.  The 
slightest  grounds  of  probability  are  enough  to  form  a 
foundation,  but  there  is  no  limit  to  the  superstructure  we 
raise  above. 

In  the  indulgence  of  this  view,  they  continued  to  chat 
till  a  late  hour,  and  parted  for  the  night  in  high  good  humor 
with  each  other,  — a  visit  to  the  O'Donoghue  being  the  plan 
for  the  succeeding  day's  accomplishment. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


A    MORNING    VISIT. 


On  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  Sir  Marmaduke, 
accompanied  by  his  son  and  daughter,  bent  their  steps 
towards  the  castle  of  the  O'Donoghue.  The  day  was  a  fine 
and  bright  one,  with  a  blue  sky  above,  and  a  hard,  frosty 
surface  on  the  earth  beneath,  and  made  walking  as  pleasant 
as  open  air  and  exercise  can  render  it.  The  carriage  was 
ordered  to  meet  them  on  their  return,  less,  indeed,  on 
account  of  the  distance,  than  that  the  shortness  of  the  day 
made  the  precaution  reasonable. 

Chatting  agreeably,  on  they  went.  The  time  slipped 
rapidly  awa}^,  now  adverting  to  the  bold  and  majestic 
scenery  around  them,  now  speaking  of  the  people,  their 
habits,  their  prejudices,  and  their  leanings,  or  anon  discus- 
sing the  O'Donoghue  family,  which,  of  all  the  puzzling 
themes  the  land  presented,  was  certainly  not  the  least 
embarrassing  to  them. 

"We  must  think  of  some  means  of  evincing  our  gratitude 
to  this  boy,  Fred,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  in  a  whisper. 
"You  appear  to  have  found  the  matter  more  difficult  than 
you  anticipated." 

"  Very  true,  sir.  In  the  early  part  of  my  visit,  it 
was  rendered  impossible  by  the  interruption  of  the  elder 
brother ;  and,  in  the  latter  part,  somehow,  I  believe  I  —  I 
actually  begin  to  fear  I  forgot  it  altogether.  However,  I 
have  thought  of  one  thing,  and  it  should  be  done  without  a 
moment's  loss  of  time.  You  must  write  to  Carden,  the 
law  agent,  and  stop  any  proceedings  Hemsworth  may  have 
begun  against  these  people.  It  would  be  most  disgraceful 
to  think  that,  while  professing  sentiments  of  good  feeling 


A   MORNING  VISIT.  223 

and  friendliness,  we  were  using  the  arm  of  the  law  to  harass 
and  distress  them." 

"I  '11  do  it  at  once,  Fred,  by  this  night's  post.  In  truth, 
I  never  understood  the  point  at  issue  between  us ;  nor  can 
I  clearly  see  Hemsworth's  reason  for  the  summary  course 
he  has  taken  with  them.  There  must  be  more  in  it  than  I 
know  of." 

"The  castle  stands  proudly,  as  seen  from  this  point," 
said  Sybella,  who  felt  somewhat  wearied  of  a  conversation 
maintained  in  a  voice  too  low  for  her  to  hear.  And  the 
remark  had  the  effect  of  recalling  them  to  other  thoughts, 
in  discussing  which  they  arrived  at  the  old  keep  of 
Carrignacurra. 

Whether  recent  events  had  sharpened  Kerry  O'Leary  to 
a  more  acute  sense  of  his  duties  as  butler,  or  that  Kate 
O'Douoghue  had  exerted  some  influence  in  bringing  about 
so  desirable  an  object,  we  know  not;  but  at  the  very  first 
summons  of  the  hall-door  bell  he  made  his  appearance,  his 
ordinary  costume  being  augmented,  if  not  improved,  by  a 
pair  of  very  unwieldy  top-boots  of  his  master's,  which 
reached  somewhere  to  the  middle  of  the  thigh,  and  was 
there  met  by  a  green  velvet  waiscoat,  from  the  same  ward- 
robe, equally  too  large  and  voluminous  for  its  present 
owner. 

Visitors  at  the  O'Donoghue  house  were  generally  of  a 
character  which  Kerry  felt  necessary  to  close  the  door 
against.  They  unhappily  came,  not  with  the  ceremonial  of 
a  visiting-card,  but  with  some  formidable  missive  of  the 
law,  in  the  shape  of  a  distress  warrant,  a  latitat,  or  that 
meeker  and  less  dreaded  engine,  a  protested  bill.  It  was, 
then,  with  a  considerable  relief  to  his  anxieties  that  his  eye 
caught  the  flutter  of  a  lady's  dress,  as  he  peeped  from  the 
small  casement  beside  the  door,  and  his  heart  expanded  in 
a  little  thanksgiving  of  its  own  as  he  unbarred  the  portal  to 
admit  her. 

Having  informed  his  visitors  that  the  family  were  at 
home,  he  preceded  them  to  the  drawing-room,  with  a  step 
the  noise  of  which  happily  drowned  the  tittering  it  was 
impossible  to  subdue  at  beholding  him.  To  prevent  the 
awkwardness  which  Sir   Marmaduke   foresaw  misjht   arise 


224  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

from  the  blundering  announcement  Kerry  ttouM  inevitably 
make  of  their  names,  he  having  repeated  over  and  over  as 
he  went  along,  by  way  of  refreshing  his  memor}^,  "Sir 
Marmaduke,  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers,"  the  old  gentleman 
stepped  forward  as  the  door  opened,  and  presented  himself 
by  name,  introducing  his  daughter  at  the  same  time. 

The  O'Donoghue,  seated  in  his  chair,  half  rose,  for  it 
was  one  of  his  gouty  days,  and  he  could  not  stir  without 
great  difficulty,  and  with  an  air  and  voice  which  bespoke 
the  gentleman,   welcomed  his  guests. 

Herbert's  eyes  gleamed  with  delight  as  he  gazed  on  the 
party;  and  Sir  Archibald,  bowing  with  an  ancient  grace 
that  would  have  suited  a  courtier  of  a  century  previous, 
presented  chairs  to  each,  going  through  the  ceremonial  of  a 
new  obeisance  to  every  one  of  the  group.  Kate  O'Donoghue 
was  not  in  the  room,  nor  Mark ;  the  latter,  indeed,  had  not 
returned  to  the  castle  since  the  day  previous. 

The  ordinary  greetings  over,  and  Sir  Marmaduke  having 
expressed,  in  well-chosen  phrase,  the  gratitude  he  ha,d  so 
long  labored  to  acquit,  the  conversation  became  easy  and 
agreeable.  Sir  Marmaduke,  seating  himself  next  O'Dono- 
ghue, had  entered  into  a  discussion  of  the  state  of  the  couu' 
try  and  the  people.  Frederick,  beside  Herbert's  chair,  was 
conversing  with  the  boy  by  livel}^  sallies  and  pleasant 
stories,  that  flowed  the  more  rapidly  as  the  listener  was  an 
eager  one;  while  Sir  Archibald,  standing  in  an  attitude  of 
respectful  attention,  had  engaged  Miss  Travers  in  a  con- 
versation about  the  glen  and  its  scenery,  to  which  his  own 
correct  taste  and  thorough  appreciation  of  the  picturesque 
gave  a  charm  and  piquancy  that  already  interested  her 
deeply.  So  naturally  easy  and  unaffected  was  the  tone  of 
their  reception  that  all  astonishment  at  finding  their  host 
so  superior  to  their  anticipation  was  merged  in  the  pleasure 
that  Travers  felt  in  the  interview.  The  good-tempered 
heartiness  of  the  O'Donoghue  himself,  his  frank  speech, 
his  ready  humor,  won  each  moment  more  and  more  on  Sir 
Marmaduke.  Frederick,  too,  never  grew  wearied  of  the 
fresh  and  joyous  spirit  which  gleamed  out  of  every  look 
and  word  from  Herbert,  whose  ardent  temperament  and 
high-hearted  nature    caught  up  the  enthusiasm  of  a  spirit 


A  MORNING   VISIT.  225 

like  his  own;  and  as  for  Sybella,  the  charm  of  Sir  Archy's 
manner,  whose  perfection  was  its  adaptation  to  the  society 
of  ladies,  delighted  her  greatly,  and  she  soon  forgot  any 
slight  inclination  to  smile  at  the  precision  of  language, 
where  deep  sound  sense  and  high  feeling  were  conveyed 
with  only  the  fault  of  pedantry.  While  thus  agreeably 
engaged  on  all  sides,  the  door  opened,  and  Kate  entered, 
but  so  noiselessly  withal  that  she  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
party  before  they  knew  of  her  approach.  Recognizing 
Frederick  Travers  with  a  gracious  smile,  she  received  Sir 
Marmaduke's  salutation  with  a  deep  courtesy,  and  then,  as 
if  similarit}'  of  years  required  a  less  ceremonious  introduc- 
tion, took  her  seat  beside  Miss  Travers,  with  an  air  of 
mingled  kindness  and  cordiality  she  so  well  knew  how  to 
assume.  As  in  an  orchestra,  amid  the  swell  of  many 
instruments,  where  deep-toned  thunders  mingle  with  sounds 
of  softer  influence,  some  one  strain  will  rise,  from  time  to 
time,  suggestive  of  feelings  apart  from  the  rest,  with  higher 
and  nobler  sympathies  around  it,  so  did  her  voice,  heard 
among  the  others,  sound  thus  sweetly.  Her  words  came 
winged  with  a  fine  expression,  which  look  and  gesture 
could  alone  give  them,  and  in  the  changing  color  of  her 
cheek,  her  brilliant  brow,  her  lips,  even  in  silence  eloquent, 
there  was  a  character  of  loveliness  as  much  above  mere 
beauty  as  life  transcends  the  marble.  The  more  perfect 
regularity  of  Sybella' s  featurcs,  their  classic  outline,  their 
chaste  correctness  in  every  line  and  lineament,  seemed 
cold  and  inanimate  when  contrasted  with  the  more  expres- 
sive loveliness  of  Kate  O'Donoghue.  The  fearless  charac- 
ter of  her  mind,  too,  was  blended  with  so  much  of  womanly 
delicacy  and  refinement,  the  wish  to  please  so  associated 
with  a  seeming  forgetfulness  of  self,  that  every  act  and 
every  gesture  teemed  with  a  charm  of  interest  for  which 
there  is  no  word  save  "fascination;"  even  that  slightly 
foreign  accent,  of  which  we  have  already  spoken,  served 
to  individualize  all  she  said,  and  left  it  graven  on  the  heart 
long  after  the  words  were  spoken. 

Frederick  Travers  watched  with  eager  delight  the  effects 
these  gifts  were  producing  upon  his  sister.  He  saw  the 
pleasure  with  which  Sybella  listened;  he  recognized,  even 

VOL.    I.  — 15 


226  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

already,  the  symptoms  of  that  conquest  by  which  mind 
subdues  mind,   and  was  overjoyed  as  he  looked. 

To  Sir  Marmaduke's  gracefully  expressed  hope  that  this 
visit  should  form  a  prelude  to  their  nearer  intimacy,  the 
O'Donoghue,  with  a  touch  of  sadness  in  his  voice,  replied 
that  he  himself  was  an  invalid,  whose  steps  never  wandered 
beyond  the  precincts  of  his  home ;  but  his  brother-in-law, 
and  his  niece,  and  the  boys,  they  would  all,  he  was  certain, 
avail  themselves  of  such  a  neighborhood.  Sir  Archibald 
bowed  low,  and  somewhat  stiffly,  perhaps,  in  accordance 
with  a  pledge  thus  given  without  his  concurrence;  but 
Herbert's  bright  eyes  grew  brighter,  and  his  cheek  flushed 
with  delight  at  the  bare  anticipation  of  the  thought. 

"And  you.  Miss  O'Donoghue,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke, 
turning  towards  Kate,  "our  humble  library  at  the  Lodge  is 
perfectly  at  your  service ;  the  only  condition  we  ask  is,  that 
you  come  and  choose  from  it  in  person." 

"That  promise  is  already  most  kindly  made,  father,'* 
interrupted  Sybella,  whose  pleased  look  showed  how  she 
had  been  captivated  by  her  new  friend. 

While  their  smiles  and  gracious  words  went  round,  the 
door  was  suddenly  opened  by  Kerry  O'Leary,  who,  forget- 
ful of  the  visitors  in  his  eager  anxiety  as  the  bearer  of 
news,  cried  out,  — 

"There's  a  shindy,  master  dear!  Such  a  row!  May 
I  never  die  in  sin  if  ever  I  seen  the  equal  of  it!" 

"What  does  he  mean?  —  is  the  fellow  mad?"  cried  the 
O'Donoghue,  angrily,  while  Sir  Archy,  bending  on  him  a 
most  ominous  frown,   muttered,  — 

"Have  ye  lost  a'  decency  together?  Ye  daft  loon,  what 
ails  ye?  " 

"I  ax  your  pardon,  and  the  quality's  pardon,"  said 
Kerr}^,  with  an  expression  of  abject  misery  for  his  uncere- 
monious entree;  "but,  if  you  seen  it,  sorra  bit  but  you  'd 
forgive  me." 

"There  has  been  good  fun  somewhere,  I  'm  certain," 
cried  out  Frederick  Travers,  whose  curiosity  to  learn 
Kerry's  intelligence  could  no  longer  be  repressed. 

"What  is  it,  then,  Kerry?"  said  the  O'Donoghue.  "Let 
us  hear  it  all." 


A  MORNING  VISIT.  227 

'"Tis  Master  Mark,  good  luck  to  him!"  cried  Kerry, 
overjoyed  at  the  permission  to  speak  out  freely.  *'He  was 
over  at  Ballyvourney  with  the  greyhounds,  when  he  seen 
that  dirty  spalpeen,  Sam  Wylie,  wid  a  process-sarver  along 
wid  him,  noticiu'  the  tenants.  The  sarver  was  a  stranger, 
and  he  did  n't  touch  him;  but  he  made  the  boys  put  Sam  on 
Nick  Maloue's  mule,  and  give  him  a  fair  start,  and  they 
run  him  down  the  mountain,  with  a  fine  view,  and  ran  into 
him  here  at  the  horse-pond,  where  the  mule  flung  him  head 
over  heels;  and  begorra,  you  wouldn't  know  'twas  a  Chris- 
tian, if  3^ou  seen  him  this  minit  dripping  wet,  and  the 
duckweed  all  hanging  round  him;  and  he's  running  still, 
for  he  thinks  Master  Mark  will  take  the  life  of  him  before 
he  stops." 

A  roar  of  laughter  from  Frederick,  joined  in  by  Herbert, 
and  at  last  by  the  O'Donoghue  himself,  for  some  moments 
prevented  a  word  of  commentary  on  this  outrageous  proceed- 
ing, when  Sir  Marmaduke,  rising  slowly,  said,  — 

"I  am  a  stranger  here,  very  ignorant  of  the  country  and 
its  habits;  but  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  any  man,  in  the 
just  discharge  of  his  duty,  should  be  thus  treated.  I  call 
upon  you,  sir,  to  investigate  this  affair,  and  if  it  be  as  we 
have  heard  it,   to  make  reparation  — " 

"Ye  hae  muckle  reason  for  what  ye  say,  sir,"  interposed 
Sir  Archy;  "but  the  freaks  and  follies  o'  young  men  hae  a 
license  here  I  doubt  ye  are  na  used  to." 

"I  '11  lay  my  life  on  it  Mark  was  right,"  called  out  the 
O'Donoghue.  "The  boy  never  makes  any  mistake  in  these 
matters." 

"If  the  fellow  were  insolent,"  said  Frederick,  "your  son 
has  served  him  properly." 

Kate  smiled  at  the  speaker  a  look  of  gratitude,  which 
amply  repaid  him  for  coming  thus  promptly  to  the  rescue. 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  happy  at  such  a 
means  of  escaping  from  a  farther  prosecution  of  a  most 
unpleasant  topic. 

"The  captain's  guessed  it  well,"  cried  Kerry.  "The 
splapeen  tould  Master  Mark  that  he  'd  be  up  here  to-morrow 
wid  a  notice  for  the  master  himself,  and  it  would  go  hard 
but  he  'd  see  us  out  of  the  place  before  Easter." 


o«>J 


THE   O'DONOGHUE. 


''  Is  this  possible  ?  "  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  blushing  deeply. 
"I  beg,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  will  forgive  an}^  hasty  expres- 
sion I  may  have  used." 

"I  can  forgive  the  lad  myself,"  said  Sir  Archy,  proudly. 

''Not  I,  then,  uncle,"  interposed  Kate,  —  "not  I.  Mark 
should  have  horsewhipped  the  fellow  within  an  inch  of  his 
life." 

Sybella  Travers  started  at  the  energy  of  voice  and  man- 
ner which  accompanied  these  words;  while  the  O'Donoghue, 
rising  from  his  chair,  came  slowly  across  the  hearth,  and 
imprinted  a  kiss  upon  Kate's  forehead. 

'•You're  one  of  the  raal  stock,  there's  no  denying  it," 
muttered  Kerry,  as  he  gazed  on  her  with  an  expression  of 
almost  worship.  "'T  is  blood  that  never  gives  in,  — divil 
a  lie  in  it!  " 

Herbert,  who  alone  had  witnessed  the  unfriendly  meeting 
between  his  brother  and  young  Travers,  turned  a  pleasant 
smile  at  the  latter,  as  he  half  whispered,  — 

"This  was  very  kind  of  you.'' 

It  would  have  been  a  difficult,  nay,  an  almost  impossible 
task  to  recall  the  tone  and  temper  of  the  party  previous  to 
this  unhappy  interruption.  All  Sir  Marmaduke's  efforts 
to  resume  the  conversation  had  lost  their  former  ease; 
the  O'Donoghue  himself  was  disconcerted,  for  he  was  not 
quite  certain  what  were  Sir  Marmaduke's  words  on  the 
occasion,  and  how  far  he  should  feel  called  upon  to  demand 
a  retractation;  and  Sir  Archibald,  fretful  and  annoyed  at 
the  impression  Mark's  conduct  would  convey  of  the  habits 
and  temper  of  the  house,  felt  his  task  a  severe  one  to 
assume  an  air  of  serenity  and  quietude. 

Frederick  Travers  alone  seemed  happy  and  delighted. 
The  sudden  expression  of  Kate  O'Donoghue's  opinion,  so 
utterly  unlike  anj^thing  he  had  ever  heard  before  from  a 
young  lady's  lips,  took  him  as  much  by  surprise  as  the 
spirit  pleased  him;  and  he  would  willingly  have  engaged 
to  horsewhip  a  dozen  process-servers  for  another  glance  of 
her  flashing  eyes  as  she  delivered  the  words ;  while  Sybella 
could  not  help  a  sentiment  bordering  on  fear,  for  one  who, 
young  as  herself,  gifted  with  every  womanly  attribute  of 
grace  and  loveliness,  had  yet  evinced  a  degree  of  impetu- 


\ 


A  MORNING  VISIT.  229 

osity  aud  passion  she  could  not  reconcile  with  such  attrac- 
tions. As  for  Kate,  the  sentiment  had  evoked  no  stir 
within  her  bosom.  It  was  a  wish  as  natui'ally  expressed  as 
it  was  felt,  and  all  the  surprise  the  others  experienced  at 
her  words  would  have  been  nothing  to  her  own  to  have 
known  of  their  astonishment. 

The  visit  soon  came  to  a  termination,  and  Sir  Marma- 
duke,  having  succeeded  in  a  great  degree  in  restoring  the 
favorable  impression  he  had  at  first  obtained,  took  his  leave 
of  the  O'Donoghue,  and  then,  addressing  Sir  Archy,  said: 

"You,  sir,  I  rejoice  to  learn,  are  not  an  invalid.  May  I 
expect  the  happiness  of  seeing  you  sometimes?" 

Sir  Archy  bowed  deeply,  and,  with  a  motion  of  his  hand 
towards  Miss  Travers,  replied,  — 

"  I  have  already  made  an  engagement  here,  sir." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sybella,  to  whom  this  speech  seemed  half 
addressed,  "  Sir  Archibald  has  been  kind  enough  to  offer 
me  his  guidance  up  the  glen,  where  there  are  several  points 
of  view  finer  than  any  I  have  seen." 

Emboldened  by  the  success  of  these  advances.  Sir  Mar- 
maduke,  with  a  courtesy  he  was  perfect  master  of,  requested 
the  party  would  not  delay  their  kind  intentions,  but  favor 
him  with  their  company  the  following  day. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  Sir  Archy  might  not  have  declined 
a  more  formal  invitation ;  but  there  seemed  something  so 
frank  in  the  abruptness  of  the  present,  that  he  acceded  at 
once ;  and  Kate  having  also  pledged  herself  to  accompany 
him,  their  greetings  were  interchanged,  and  they  parted. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SOME    OPPOSITE    TRAITS    OF    CHARACTER. 

It  may  seem  strange,  and  almost  paradoxical.  —  but  so  it 
was,  —  Kate  O'Donoghue's  presence  appeared  to  have 
wrought  a  most  magical  change  in  the  whole  household 
of  the  O'Donoghue.  The  efforts  they  themselves  made  to 
ward  off  the  semblance  of  their  fallen  estate  induced  a 
happier  frame  of  mind  than  that  which  resulted  from  daily 
brooding  over  their  misfortunes :  the  very  struggle  elicited 
a  courage  they  had  left  long  in  disuse ;  and  the  cheerfulness 
which  at  first  was  but  assumed,  grew  gradually  more  and 
more  natural.  To  the  O'Donoghue,  who,  for  many  a  day, 
desired  no  more  than  to  fend  off  the  evil  in  his  own  brief 
time, — who,  with  the  selfishness  of  an  old  age  passed  in 
continual  conflict  with  poverty,  only  sought  a  life  interest 
in  their  bettered  fortunes,  —  she  was  a  boon  above  all  price. 
Her  light  step,  her  lighter  laugh,  her  mirthful  tone  of  con- 
versation, with  its  many  anecdotes  and  stories  of  places  and 
people  he  had  not  heard  of  before,  were  resources  against 
gloom  that  never  failed. 

Sir  Archy,  too,  felt  a  return  to  the  old  associations  of  his 
youth  in  the  presence  of  a  young,  beautiful,  and  accom- 
plished girl,  whose  gracefulness  and  elegance  threw  a  halo 
around  her  as  she  went,  and  made  of  that  old  and  crumbling 
tower,  dark  with  neglect,  and  sad  with  time,  a  salon  teeming 
with  its  many  appliances  against  depression,  where  she  her- 
self, armed  with  so  many  fascinations,  dispensed  cheerful- 
ness and  bliss  on  all  about  her.  Nor  was  he  selfish  in  all 
this.  He  marked  with  delight  the  impression  made  upon 
his  favorite  Herbert  by  his  cousin's  attractive  manners. 
How  insensibly,  as  it  were,  the  boy  was  won  from  ruder 


SOME   OPPOSITE   TRAITS   OF   CHARACTER.         231 

pursuits  and  coarser  pleasures  to  sit  beside  her  as  she  sang, 
or  near  her  as  she  read ;  with  what  interest  he  pursued  his 
lessons  in  French  beneath  her  tuition,  and  the  ardor  with 
which  he  followed  every  plan  of  study  suggested  by  her! 
Sir  Archibald  saw  all  these  things,  and  calculated  on  their 
result  with  accuracy.  He  foresaw  how  Kate's  attractive 
gifts  would  throw  into  the  shade  the  ruder  tastes  the  boy's 
condition  in  life  might  expose  him  to  adopt,  and  thus  aid 
him  in  the  great  object  of  his  whole  existence,  —  to  save  him, 
at  least,  from  the  wreck  of  his  house. 

Mark  alone  seemed  untouched  by  her  presence,  save  that 
the  wild  excesses  of  high  spirit,  to  w^hich  from  time  to  time 
he  ever  gave  way,  were  now  gone,  and,  in  their  place,  a  deep 
gloom,  a  moroseness  of  character  succeeded,  rendering  him 
usually  silent  before  her,  or  sunk  in  his  own  saddening 
reflections.  Kate  would  sometimes  adventure  to  disperse 
the  dark  clouds  from  his  mind,  but  ever  without  success ; 
he  either  felt  annoyed  at  being  the  subject  of  remark,  or  left 
the  room ;  so  that  at  last  she  abandoned  the  effort,  hoping 
that  time  and  its  changes  would  effect  what  the  present 
denied.  Perhaps,  too,  she  had  reasons  for  this  hope.  More 
than  once,  with  womanly  quickness,  had  she  marked  how  he 
had  stood  with  his  eye  fixed  upon  her,  unconscious  of  being 
seen ;  how,  when  about  to  leave  the  room,  he  would  loiter 
about,  as  if  in  search  of  something,  but,  in  reality,  to  listen 
to  the  song  she  was  singing.  Still,  she  showed  no  sign  of 
having  seen  these  things,  but  always,  in  her  air  towards  him, 
affected  a  careless  ease  of  manner  as  like  his  own  as  possible. 
For  days,  sometimes  for  an  entire  week,  he  wouk]  absent 
himself  from  home ;  and,  as  he  was  never  submissive  to 
much  questioning,  his  appearance  called  forth  no  other  re- 
mark than  some  passing  observation  of  what  had  occurred 
in  his  absence,  but  which  drew  from  him  no  interchange  of 
confidence. 

These  symptoms  of  Mark's  altered  character  made  a  deeper 
impression  on  his  father  than  events  of  greater  moment 
could  have  done.  He  watched  every  movement  and  expres- 
sion of  his  favorite  son,  to  catch  some  clew  to  the  change ; 
but  all  in  vain.  The  young  man  never,  by  any  accident, 
alluded  to  himself,  nor  did  he  often  now  advert  to  the  cir- 


232  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

cumstances  of  the  family  difficulties ;  on  the  contrary,  a 
lethargic  carelessness  seemed  to  brood  over  him,  and  he 
went  about  like  one  who  had  lost  all  zest  for  life,  and  all 
care  for  its  enjoyments. 

The  O'Donoghue  was  too  well  versed  in  the  character  of 
his  son  to  hope  for  any  elucidation  of  the  mystery  by  a  mere 
inquiry ;  so  that  he  was  left  to  speculate  on  the  many  causes 
which  might  have  operated  the  change,  and  divine,  as  well 
as  he  was  able,  the  secret  grief  that  affected  him.  In  this 
pursuit,  like  all  who  have  long  suffered  the  pressure  of  a 
particular  calamity,  he  ever  felt  disposed  to  ascribe  Mark's 
suffering  to  the  same  cause  which  produced  his  own,  namely, 
the  fallen  fortunes  of  the  house,  and  the  ruin  that  hung  over 
them.  Yet,  somehow,  of  late,  matters  had  taken  a  turn 
more  favorable.  His  attorney  at  Cork  hajil  informed  him, 
that  from  some  informality  in  the  proceedings,  the  ejectment 
was  stopped,  at  least  for  the  present  term.  The  notices  to 
the  tenants  not  to  pay  were  withdrawn,  and  the  rents  came 
in  as  before ;  and  the  only  very  pressing  evil  were  the  bills, 
the  renewal  of  which  demanded  a  considerable  sum  of  ready 
money.  That  this  one  misfortune  should  occasion  a  gloom 
the  accumulated  griefs  of  former  days  had  not  done,  he  could 
not  understand ;  but  by  long  musing  on  the  matter,  and  deep 
reflection,  he  at  last  came  to  the  conviction  that  such  was 
the  case,  and  that  Mark's  sorrow  was  the  greater  from 
seeing  how  near  they  were  to  a  more  favorable  issue  to  their 
affairs,  and  yet  how  fatally  debarred  from  such  a  consumma- 
tion by  this  one  disastrous  circumstance. 

The  drowning  man  grasps  not  the  straw  with  more  avidity 
than  does  the  harassed  and  wearied  mind,  agitated  by 
doubts,  and  worn  out  with  conjectures,  seize  upon  some  one 
apparent  solution  to  a  difficulty  that  has  long  oppressed  it, 
and,  for  the  very  moment,  convert  every  passing  circum- 
stance into  an  argument  for  its  truthfulness.  The  O'Dono- 
ghue now  saw,  or  believed  he  saw,  why  Mark  would  never 
accompany  the  others  in  their  visits  to  the  Lodge,  nor  be 
present  when  any  of  the  Travers  family  came  to  the  castle ; 
he  immediately  accounted  for  his  son's  rejection  of  the  prof- 
fered civilities,  by  that  wounded  pride  which  made  him  feel 
his  present  position  so  painfully,  and,  as  the  future  head  of 


SOME   OPPOSITE   TRAITS   OF  CHARACTER.         233 

the  house,  grieve  over  a  state  so  unbecoming  to  its  former 
fortunes. 

"The  poor  fellow,"  said  he,  "is  too  high-spirited  to  be 
a  guest  to  those  he  cannot  be  a  host.  Noble  boy !  the  old 
blood  flows  strongly  in  your  veins,  at  least." 

How  to  combat  this  evil  now  became  his  sole  thought. 
He  mused  over  it  by  day  —  he  dreamed  of  it  by  night. 
Hour  by  hour  he  endured  the  harassing  tortures  of  a  poverty 
whose  struggles  were  all  abortive,  and  whose  repulses  came 
without  ceasing.  Each  plan  he  thought  of  was  met  by 
obstacles  innumerable ;  and  when,  worn  out  with  unprofit- 
able schemes,  he  had  resolved  on  abandoning  the  subject 
forever,  the  sight  of  Mark's  wasted  cheek  and  sunken  eye 
rallied  him  again  to  an  effort,  which,  each  time,  he  vowed 
should  be  the  last. 

The  old  and  often  successful  remedies  to  rall}^  him  from 
his  low  spirits  his  father  possessed  no  longer,  —  the  indul- 
gence of  some  caprice,  some  momentary  fancy  for  a  horse 
or  a  hound,  a  boat  or  a  fishing-rod.  He  felt,  besides,  that 
his  grief,  whatever  it  was,  lay  too  deep  for  such  surface 
measures  as  these,  and  he  pondered  long  and  anxiously 
over  the  matter.  Nor  had  he  one  to  share  his  sorrow,  or 
assist  him  with  advice.  Sir  Archibald  he  ever  regarded 
as  being  prejudiced  against  Mark,  and  invariably  more 
disposed  to  exaggerate  than  extenuate  his  faults.  To  have 
opened  his  heart  to  him  would  be  to  expose  himself  to  some 
very  plausible,  but,  as  he  would  deem  them,  ver}^  impracti- 
cable remarks,  on  frugality  and  order,  —  the  necessity  of 
submitting  to  altered  fortunes,  —  and,  if  need  be,  of  under- 
taking some  humble  but  honest  occupation  as  a  livelihood. 
These,  and  such  like,  had  more  than  once  been  intruded 
upon  him ;  but  to  seek  and  court  them,  to  invite  their 
presence,  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

Kerry  O'Leary  was,  then,  the  only  one  who  remained ; 
and  they  who  know  the  intimacy  to  which  old  servants,  long 
conversant  with  the  fortunes  of  the  family,  and  deemed 
faithful,  because,  from  utter  inutility,  they  are  attached  to 
the  house  that  shelters  them,  are  admitted  in  Irish  house- 
holds, will  not  be  surprised  at  the  choice  of  the  confidant. 
He,  I  say,  was  the  O'Donoghue's  last  resource ;  and  from 


234  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

him  he  still  hoped  to  gain  some  clew,  at  least,  to  the  secret 
of  this  mystery.  Scarcely  had  the  O'Douoghue  retired  to 
his  room  at  night,  when  Kerry  was  summoned  to  his  pres- 
ence, and  after  a  few  preliminaries,  was  asked  if  he  knew 
where,  how,  or  with  whom  his  young  master  latterly  spent 
his  time. 

"  Faix,  and  'tis  that  same  does  be  puzzling  myself,"  said 
Kerry,  to  whom  the  matter  had  already  been  one  of  consider- 
able curiosity.     "  Sometimes  I  think  one  thing,  and  then  I 
think  another;  but  it  beats  me  entirely." 
"  What  were  your  thoughts,  then,  Kerry?" 
"  'T  was  Tuesday  last  I  suspected  Joe  Lenahan's  daughter, 

—  the  fair-haired  girl,  above  at  the  three  meadows ;  then  I 
took  it  into  my  head  it  might  be  a  badger  he  was  after,  — 
for  he  was  forever  going  along  by  the  bank  of  the  river; 
but,  twice  in  the  week,  I  was  sure  I  had  him  —  and  faix,  I 
think,  maybe  I  have." 

"  How  is  that,  Kerry?     Tell  me  at  once,  man." 
"It's  a  fine  brown  beast  Lanty  Lawler  has,  —  a  strap- 
ping four-year-old,  as  likel}^  a  weight-carrier  as  ever  I  seen, 

—  that 's  what  he  's  after  ;  sorra  lie  in  it.  I  obsarved  him, 
on  Friday,  taking  him  over  the  big  fences  beyant  the  whin- 
field  —  and  I  measured  his  tracks  —  and  may  I  never  die  in 
sin  if  he  did  n't  stride  nineteen  feet  over  the  yallow  ditch." 

"  Do  you  know  what  he's  asking  for  him,  Kerry?"  cried 
the  old  man,  eagerly. 

"  His  weight  in  goold,  I  heerd  say ;  for  the  captain,  up  at 
the  Lodge,  will  give  him  his  own  price  for  any  beast  will 
make  a  charger  —  and  three  hundred  guineas  Lanty  expects 
for  the  same  horse.  Ay  eh  !  he  's  a  plaj^-actor  is  Lanty,  and 
knows  how  to  rub  the  gentlemen  down  with  a  damp  wisp." 

"  And  you  think  that 's  it,  Kerry?  " 

"I'll  take  the  vestment  it's  not  far  off  it.  I  never  heerd 
Master  Mark  give  a  cheer  out  of  him  going  over  a  fence 
that  he  had  n't  a  conceit  out  of  the  beast  under  him. 
'  Whoop !  '  says  he,  throwing  up  his  whip  hand,  '  this  way.' 
^  Your  heart's  in  him,'  says  I,  '  and  't  is  a  murther  he  is  n't 
your  own.'" 

"  You  may  leave  me,  Kerry,"  said  the  old  man,  sighing 
heavily;   "'tis  getting  near  twelve  o'clock." 


SOME   OPPOSITE  TRAITS   OF   CHARACTER.  235 

«*  Good  night,  sir,  and  a  safe  rest  to  you." 

''Wait  a  moment  —  stay  a  few  minutes.  Are  they  in  the 
drawing-room  still  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir;  I  heerd  Miss  Kate  singing  as  I  came  up  the 
stairs." 

"  Well,  Kerry,  I  want  you  to  wait  till  she  is  leaving  the 
room,  and  just  whisper  to  her,  —  mind  now,  for  your  life, 
that  nobody  sees  nor  hears  you,  — just  say  that  I  wish  to  see 
her  up  here  for  a  few  seconds  to-night.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"  Never  fear,  sir,  I  '11  do  it,  and  sorra  one  the  wiser." 

Kerry  left  the  apartment  as  he  spoke,  nor  was  his  master 
long  doomed  to  suspense,  for  immediately  after  a  gentle  tap 
at  the  door  announced  Kate's  presence  there. 

"  Sit  down  there,  my  darling  Kate,"  cried  the  O'Donoghue, 
placing  a  chair  beside  his  own,  "and  let  me  have  five 
minutes'  talk  with  j^ou." 

The  young  gu*l  obeyed  with  a  smile,  and  returned  the 
pressure  of  her  uncle's  hand  with  warmth. 

"  Kate,  my  child,"  said  he,  —  speaking  with  evident  diflS- 
culty  and  embarrassment,  and  fixing  his  eyes,  not  on  her, 
but  towards  the  fire,  as  he  spoke,  —  "  Kate,  you  have  come 
to  a  sad  and  cheerless  home,  with  few  comforts,  with  no 
pleasure  for  one  so  young  and  so  lovely  as  you  are." 

"My  dear  uncle,  how  can  you  speak  thus  to  me?  Can 
you  separate  me  in  your  heart  from  your  other  children? 
Mark  and  Herbert  make  no  complaint,  —  do  you  think  that  I 
could  do  so  ?  " 

"  They  are  very  different  from  you,  my  sweet  child.  The 
moss-rose  will  not  bear  the  storms  of  winter  that  the  wild 
thorn  can  brave  without  danger.  To  you  this  dreary  house 
must  be  a  prison.     I  know  it  —  I  feel  it." 

"Nay,  nay,  uncle.  If  3^ou  think  thus,  it  must  be  my 
fault,  —  some  piece  of  wilfulness  of  mine  could  alone  have 
made  you  suppose  me  discontented ;  but  I  am  not  so,  —  far 
from  it.  I  love  dear  old  Sir  Archy  and  my  cousins  dearly ; 
yes,  and  my  uncle  Miles  too,  though  he  seems  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  me." 

The  old  man  pressed  her  fingers  to  his  lips,  and  turned 
away  his  head. 

"  Come,  Kate,"  said  he,  after  a  brief  pause,  "  it  was  with 


236  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

no  intention  of  that  kind  I  spoke.  We  could  none  of  us  live 
without  you  now.    My  thoughts  had  a  very  different  object.'* 

' '  And  that  was  —  " 

"Simply  this,"  —  and  here  he  made  a  great  effort,  and 
spoke  rapidly,  as  if  fearing  to  dwell  on  the  words,  —  ''  law- 
suits and  knavish  attorneys  have  wasted  three-fourths  of 
my  estate,  —  the  remainder  I  scarcely  know  if  I  be  its  mas- 
ter or  not ;  on  that  portion,  however,  the  old  house  stands, 
and  the  few  acres  that  survive  the  wreck.  At  this  moment 
heavy  proceedings  are  pending  in  the  courts,  if  successful 
in  which,  I  shall  be  left  in  possession  of  the  home  of  my 
father,  and  not  turned  adrift  upon  the  world,  a  beggar. 
There  —  don't  look  so  pale,  child  —  the  story  is  an  old  one 
now,  and  has  few  terrors  for  us  as  long  as  it  remains  merely 
anticipated  evil.  This  is  a  sad  tale  for  your  ears,  —  1  know 
it,"  said  he,  wiping  away  a  tear  that  would  come,  in  spite  of 
him. 

Both  were  now  silent.  The  old  man  paused,  uncertain 
how  he  should  proceed  farther.  Kate  spoke  not ;  for  as  yet 
she  could  neither  see  the  drift  of  the  communication,  nor, 
if  it  were  in  any  way  addressed  to  her,  what  part  she  was 
expected  to  take  in  the  matter. 

"  Are  you  aware,  my  dear,"  resumed  he,  after  a  consid- 
erable delay,  "  that  your  father  was  married  to  your  mother 
when  she  was  but  sixteen  ?  " 

"  I  have  often  heard  she  was  scarcely  more  than  a  child,'* 
said  Kate,  timidly,  for  she  had  no  recollection  of  having  seen 
either  of  her  parents. 

"A  child  in  years,  love,  she  was,  but  a  woman  in  grace, 
good  sense,  and  accomplishments  —  in  fact,  so  fortunate  was 
my  poor  brother  in  his  choice,  he  ever  regarded  the  youth- 
fulness  of  his  wife  as  one  of  the  reasons  of  that  amiability  of 
temper  she  possessed.  Often  have  we  talked  of  this  together, 
and  nothing  could  convince  him  to  the  contrary,  as  if,  had 
the  soil  been  unfruitful,  the  tares  and  the  thistles  had  not 
been  as  abundant  a  crop  as  the  good  fruit  really  was.  He 
acted  on  his  conviction,  however,  Kate ;  for  he  determined, 
if  ever  he  had  a  daughter,  she  should  be  of  age  at  sixteen, 
—  the  period  of  life  her  mother  was  married  at.  I  endeav- 
ored to  dissuade  him,  I  did  my  best  to  expose  the  dangers 


SOME   OPPOSITE  TRAITS  OP   CHARACTER.  237 

and  difficulties  of  such  a  plau.  Perhaps,  dearest,  I  should 
have  been  less  obstinate  iu  argument  had  I  been  prophetic 
enough  to  know  what  my  niece  would  be ;  but  it  was  all  in 
vain.  The  idea  had  become  a  dominant  one  with  him,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  yield.  And  now,  Kate,  after  the  long  lapse 
of  years,  —  for  the  conversation  I  allude  to  took  place  a 
great  while  ago,  —  it  is  my  lot  to  say,  that  my  brother  was 
right  and  I  was  wrong ;  that  he  foresaw  with  a  truer  spirit 
the  events  of  the  future  than  was  permitted  to  me.  You 
were  of  age  two  months  since." 

The  young  girl  listened  with  eager  curiosity  to  every  word 
that  fell  from  her  uncle's  lips,  and  seemed  disappointed 
when  he  ceased  to  speak.  To  have  gone  thus  far,  and  no 
farther,  did  not  satisfy  her  mind,  and  she  waited  with  im- 
patience for  him  to  continue. 

"  I  see,  my  child,"  said  he,  gently,  "  you  are  not  aware  of 
the  proceedings  of  coming  of  age ;  you  have  not  heard,  per- 
haps, that,  as  your  guardian,  I  hold  in  my  hands  the  for- 
tune your  father  bequeathed  to  you.  It  was  his  portion  as 
a  younger  son ;  for,  poor  fellow !  he  had  the  family  fail- 
ing, and  never  could  live  within  his  income.  Your  ten 
thousand  —  he  always  called  it  yours  —  he  never  encroached 
upon,  and  that  sum,  at  least,  is  secured  to  3'ou." 

Although  Kate  knew  that  her  uncle  was  her  guardian, 
and  had  heard  that  some  property  would  revert  to  her,  what 
its  amount  was  she  had  not  the  most  remote  idea  of,  nor 
that  her  power  over  it  should  commence  so  soon. 

"I  see,  uncle,  —  I  understand  all  you  say,"  said  she, 
hurriedly;  "I  am  of  age,  and  the  owner  of  ten  thousand 
pounds." 

The  tone  of  decision  she  employed  half  terrified  the 
O'Donoghue  for  the  prudence  of  his  communication,  and 
he  almost  hesitated  to  answer  her  directly,  —  *' Yes,  my 
child,  it  is  a  rent-charge  —  a  —  " 

"  I  care  not  for  the  name,  sii\  Does  it  represent  the 
value  ?  " 

"  Unquestionably  it  does." 

"  Take  it  then,  dearest  uncle,"  said  she,  flinging  herself 
upon  his  neck,  —  "  take  it,  and  use  it  so  that  it  maj^  bring 
some  comfort  to  yourself,  some  ease  of  mind  at  least,  and 


238  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

make  your  home  a  happier  one. "  What  need  to  think  of  the 
boys?  Mark  and  Herbert  are  not  of  the  mould  that  need 
fear  failure,  whatever  path  they  follow ;  and  as  for  me, 
when  you  grow  weary  of  me,  the  Sacre  Coeur  will  gladly 
take  me  back.  Indeed,  they  feel  their  work  of  conversion 
of  me  but  very  imperfectly  executed,"  added  she,  smiling, 
*'and  the  dear  nuns  would  be  well  pleased  to  finish  their 
task." 

"Kate,  my  child,  my  own  darling,"  cried  the  old  man, 
clasping  her  to  his  heart,  "this  may  not — this  cannot  be." 

"  It  must,  and  it  shall  be,  uncle,"  said  she,  resolutely. 
**  If  my  dear  father's  will  be  not  a  nullity,  I  have  power 
over  my  fortune." 

"  But  not  to  effect  your  ruin,  Kate." 

"  No,  sir,  nor  shall  I.  Will  my  dear  uncle  love  me  less 
for  the  consciousness  in  m}^  own  heart  that  I  am  doing- 
right?  Will  he  have  a  smile  the  less  for  me,  that  I  can 
return  it  with  an  affection  warmer  from  very  happiness? 
I  cannot  believe  this ;  nor  can  I  think  that  you  would 
render  your  brother's  daughter  unworthy  of  her  father. 
You  would  not  refuse  him."  Her  lip  trembled,  and  her 
eyes  grew  full  as  she  uttered  the  last  few  words,  in  a  voice 
every  word  of  which  went  to  the  old  man's  heart. 

"  There  is  but  one  way,  Kate." 

"What  need  of  more,  uncle?  Do  we  want  a  choice  of 
roads,  if  we  see  a  straight  path  before  us  ?  " 

"Yes,  dearest;  but  it  will  be  said  that  I  should  not  have 
suffered  you  to  do  this.     That  in  accepting  a  loan  —  " 

"  A  loan!  "  uttered  she,  reproachfully. 

"  As  that,  or  nothing,  can  I  ever  touch  a  farthing  of  it," 
replied  the  O'Donoghue.  "No,  no!  Distress  and  hardship 
have  been  a  weary  load  this  many  a  year ;  but  all  sense  of 
honor  is  not  yet  obliterated  in  this  poor  heart  I  " 

"Be  it  as  you  please,  my  dear,  dear  uncle,"  said  the 
affectionate  girl;  "  only  let  it  not  cost  you  another  painful 
thought,  to  rob  me  of  so  many  happy  ones.  There  now, 
we  must  never  speak  of  this  any  more ;  "  and,  so  saying, 
she  kissed  him  twice,  and  rose  from  her  chair.  "  We  are 
going  to  the  Lodge  to-morrow,  to  spend  the  day;  Herbert 
is  so  well  that  he  comes  with  us." 


SOME  OPPOSITE   TRAITS   OF  CHARACTER.         239 

**  Aud  Mark,  — what  of  him,  dearest?  " 

"Mark  will  be  none  of  us,  sir.  We  are  either  too  gay, 
or  too  frivolous,  or  too  silly,  or  too  something  or  other,  for 
his  solemn  humor,  and  he  only  frowns  and  stares  at  us ;  but 
all  that  will  pass  away  soon ;  I  shall  find  the  key  to  his 
temper  yet,  and  then  make  him  pay  for  all  his  arrears  of 
sulkiness." 

"  It  is  our  changed  condition,  my  love,  that  has  made  him 
thus,"  said  the  father,  anxious  to  excuse  the  young  man's 
morose  habits. 

"The  poorer  courage  his,  then,"  replied  the  high-spirited 
girl;  "  I  have  no  patience  for  a  man  who  acts  but  the  look- 
ing-glass to  fortune,  —  frowns  when  she  frowns,  and  smiles 
when  she  smiles.  No !  give  me  the  temper  that  can  enjoy 
the  sunshine  and  brave  the  storm,  —  take  all  the  good  the 
world  affords,  and  show  a  bold  heart  to  resist  the  evil." 

"My  own  brother,  my  poor  dear  Mark,  spoke  there,"  cried 
the  old  man  in  an  ecstasy,  as,  springing  up,  he  flung  his  arms 
about  her ;   "  and  that's  your  philosophy,  sweet  Kate? " 

"Even  so;  the  stout  heart  to  the  stae  brae,  as  Sir  Archy 
would  call  it,  and  as  he  mutters  every  evening  he  has  to 
climb  the  steep  stair  towards  his  bedroom.  And  now,  good 
night,  dear  uncle,  good-night." 

With  an  affectionate  greeting  the  old  man  took  his  leave 
of  her  for  the  night  and  sat  down,  in  a  frame  of  mingled 
happiness  and  shame,  to  think  over  what  had  passed. 

The  O'Donoghue  was  very  far  from  feeling  satisfied  with 
himself  for  what  he  had  done.  Had  Kate  been  at  all  diffi- 
cult of  persuasion, — had  she  yielded  to  his  arguments,  or 
been  convinced  by  any  explanations  of  his  views,  he  would 
soon  have  reconciled  himself  to  the  act  as  one  in  which  both 
parties  concurred.  Far  from  this :  he  saw  that  her  only 
motive  was  affection ;  that  she  would  listen  to  nothing  save 
the  promptings  of  her  own  warm  heart ;  she  would  not  let 
him  even  exculpate  himself  from  the  charge  of  his  own  con- 
science ;  and,  although  acquitted  by  her,  he  felt  the  guilt 
still  upon  him. 

There  was  a  time  when  he  would  not  have  stooped  to  such 
a  course ;  but  then  he  was  rich,  rich  in  the  world's  wealth, 
and  the  honor  such  atliuence  suggests  ;   for,  alas  I    humbling 


240  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

as  the  avowal  may  seem,  the  noble  traits  so  often  adrnked 
in  prosperity  are  but  the  promptings  of  a  spirit  revelling  in 
its  own  enjoyment  —  open-handed  and  generous,  because 
these  qualities  are  luxuries ;  free  to  give,  because  the  giving 
involves  gratitude ;  and  gratitude  is  the  incense  of  weakness 
to  power,  —  of  poverty  to  wealth.  How  often  are  the  warm 
affections,  nurtured  by  happy  circumstances,  mistaken  for 
the  evidence  of  right  principles?  How  frequently  are  the 
pleasurable  impulses  of  the  heart  confounded  with  the  well- 
du-ected  judgments  of  the  mind.  This  man  was  less  changed 
than  he  knew  of :  the  world  of  his  circumstances  was,  in- 
deed, different,  but  he  was  little  altered ;  the  same  selfish- 
ness that  once  made  him  munificent  now  made  him  mean ; 
but,  whether  conferring  or  accepting  favors,  the  spirit  was 
one. 

Besides,  how  ingenious  is  the  mind  in  suggesting  plau- 
sible reasons  for  its  indulgences  !  —  how  naturally  easy  did 
it  seem  to  borrow  and  repay !  The  very  words  satisfied 
his  scruples  on  that  score ;  but  if  he  were  indeed  so  con- 
tented with  himself,  why  did  he  fear  lest  any  one  should 
ever  learn  the  circumstance  ?  Why  cower  with  shame  before 
himself  to  think  of  his  brother-in-law,  or  even  Mark,  hear- 
ing of  it?  Were  these  the  signs  of  conscious  rectitude,  or 
were  they  the  evidence  of  a  spirit  seeking  rest  in  casuistry 
and  self-deception?  In  this  conflict  of  alternate  approval 
and  condemnation  he  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  night,  — 
sometimes  a  struggling  sense  of  honor  urging  him  to  regret 
a  course  so  fraught  with  humiliations  of  every  kind ;  and 
again  a  thrill  of  delight  would  run  through  his  heart  to  think 
of  all  the  pleasure  he  could  confer  upon  his  favorite  boy,  — 
the  indulgences  he  could  once  more  shower  upon  him.  He 
fancied  the  happiness  of  emancipation  from  pressing  diffi- 
culties, and  how  instinctively  Mark's  buoyant  temper  would 
take  the  tone  of  their  altered  fortunes,  and  he  once  again 
become  the  gay  and  reckless  youth  he  loved  to  see  him. 

"He  must  have  that  brown  horse  Kerry  speaks  of," 
muttered  he  to  himself.  "  Sir  Marmaduke  shall  not  out- 
bid us  there,  and  we  '11  see  which  of  the  two  best  becomes 
his  saddle.  I  '11  back  my  own  boy  against  his  scarlet-coated 
fop  for  a  thousand.     They  've  got  some  couples  of  dogs,  too, 


SOME   OPPOSITE  TRAITS   OF  CHARACTER.         241i 

Kerry  was  telling  me,  up  the  mountains.  We  must  inquire 
about  them ;  with  eight  or  ten  couple  Mark  could  have  good 
sport  in  the  glen.  Then  there  's  those  bills  of  Callaghau's, 
—  but  he  '11  not  press  hard  when  he  sees  we  've  money. 
Cassidy  must  get  his  £800,  and  so  he  shall ;  and  that  scoun- 
drel, Swaby,  will  be  sending  in  his  bill  of  costs ;  but  a 
couple  of  hundred  pounds  ought  to  stop  his  mouth.  Arch}^, 
too,  —  by  Jove,  I  forget  how  much  I  owe  him  now ;  but  he 
does  n't,  I  '11  warrant  him.  Well,  well,  if  it  won't  stop  the 
leak,  it  will  at  least  give  us  time  to  work  the  pumps,  —  ay, 
time,  time !  "  He  asked  for  no  more ;  he  only  sought  to 
reach  the  haven  himself,  and  cared  nothing  what  happened 
the  craft  nor  the  crew  afterwards. 

His  next  thought  was  how  to  effect  all  the  legal  arrange- 
ments in  these  complicated  matters  without  the  knowledge 
of  Mark  or  Sir  Archy ;  and  on  this  difficult  point  he  spent 
till  nigh  morning  deliberating.  The  only  mode  he  could 
think  of  was  by  writing  to  Swaby  himself,  and  making  him 
aware  of  the  whole  proceeding.  That,  of  course,  would  be 
attended  by  its  own  penalties,  as  Swaby  would  take  care 
that  his  own  costs  were  among  the  first  things  to  be  liqui- 
dated ;  but  yet  it  seemed  the  sole  course  open  to  him,  and 
with  the  resolve  to  do  this  on  the  morrow  he  turned  on  his 
pillow  and  fell  asleep. 

The  morning  broke  with  happiness  to  the  uncle  and  the 
niece,  but  it  was  a  happiness  of  a  very  different  order.  To 
him,  the  relief  of  mind  for  the  long  harassing  cares  of  debt 
and  difficulty  was  a  boon  of  inestimable  price,  —  life  and 
liberty  at  once  to  the  imprisoned  spirit  of  his  proud  heart. 
To  her,  the  higher  and  nobler  sense  of  gratification  which 
flows  from  having  acted  well,  sent  a  thrill  of  ecstasy  through 
her  bosom  such  as  only  gentle  and  generous  youth  can  ever 
feel.  And  thus,  while  the  O'Donoghue  mused  over  the 
enjoj^ments  and  pleasures  his  new  accession  of  wealth  might 
place  at  his  disposal,  she  revelled  in  the  delight  of  having 
ministered  to  the  happiness  of  one  she  had  always  regarded 
as  a  father,  and  even  felt  grateful  to  him  for  the  emotions 
of  her  own  heart. 

The  O'Donoghue's  first  thought  on  awaking  was  to  employ 
this  large  sum  to  liquidate  some  of  his  most  pressing  debts. 


242  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

and  to  make  such  arrangements  as  might  enable  them  to 
live  economically  but  comfortably,  paying  off  those  creditors 
whose  exorbitant  interest  was  consuming  all  the  remnant 
of  his  income,  and  entering  into  contracts  with  others  for 
the  gradual  repayment  of  loans.  The  more  he  reflected  on 
these  good  intentions,  the  less  pleasure  did  they  yield  him. 
He  had  for  years  past  taught  himself  to  regard  a  creditor 
as  an  implacable  enemy.  The  very  idea  of  succumbing 
smacked  of  defeat.  He  had  defied  the  law  so  long,  it  looked 
like  cowardice  to  surrender  now ;  besides,  the  very  complica- 
tion of  his  affairs  offered  an  excuse  which  he  was  not  slow 
to  catch  at.  How  could  he  pay  Cassidy  in  full,  and  only 
give  Hickson  a  part?  Would  not  the  mere  rumor  of  his 
paying  off  his  debts  bring  down  a  host  of  demands  that  had 
almost  slumbered  themselves  out  of  existence.  He  had 
often  heard  that  his  grandfather  "  muddled  awa}^  his  fortune 
paying  small  debts."  It  could  not  be  supposed  he  would 
reject  the  traditions  of  his  own  house,  —  nor  did  he. 

He  judged  wisely,  if  not  well,  that  new  habits  of  ex- 
penditure would  do  more  to  silence  the  complaints  of  duns 
than  the  most  accurately  calculated  system  of  liquidation ; 
that  entertainments  and  equipages,  a  stable  full  of  horses, 
and  a  house  crammed  with  guests,  are  a  receipt  in  full  for 
solvency  which,  however  some  may  distrust,  none  are  bold 
enough  to  question  openly. 

If  the  plan  had  fewer  excellencies,  it  at  least  suited  him 
better;  and  he  certainly  opened  the  campaign  with  vigor. 
No  sooner  had  he  decided  on  his  line  of  acting,  than  he  de- 
spatched Kerry  O'Leary  to  Cork  with  a  letter  for  Swaby, 
his  attorney,  requiring  his  immediate  presence  at  Carrigna- 
curra,  and  adding,  "that  if  he  brought  a  couple  of  hundred 
pounds  over  with  him  at  the  same  time,  he  might  include 
them  with  the  costs,  and  get  a  check  for  the  whole  to- 
gether." 

As  the  old  man  sealed  his  epistle,  he  chuckled  over  the 
thoughts  of  Swaby's  astonishment,  and  fancied  the  many 
guesses  the  crafty  attorney  would  frame  to  account  for  such 
unexpected  prosperity.  The  little  remaining  sorrow  he  felt 
for  his  share  in  the  transaction  gave  way  to  the  vulgar  pleas- 
ure of  this  surprise ;   for,  so  it  is,  the  conflict  with  poverty 


SOME   OPPOSITE  TRAITS   OF  CHARACTER.  243 

can  debase  the  mind,  and  make  the  very  straits  and  strata- 
gems of  want  seem  straits  of  cleverness  and  ability. 

It  was  a  day  of  pleasure  almost  to  all.  Sir  Archy,  dressed 
in  a  suit  which  had  not  seen  daylight  for  many  a  previous 
year,  gave  his  arm  to  Kate,  and,  accompanied  by  Herbert, 
set  out  to  pass  the  day  at  the  Lodge.  Mark  alone  had  no 
participation  in  the  general  joy ;  he  stood  with  folded  arms 
at  the  window  of  the  old  tower,  and  gazed  on  the  group 
that  moved  along  the  road.  Although  he  never  thought  of 
accompanying  them,  there  was  a  sense  of  desertion  in  his 
position  of  which  he  could  not  divest  himself.  With  the 
idea  of  the  pleasure  their  visit  would  afford  them  came  the 
reflection  that  he  was  debarred  from  his  share  of  such  enjoy- 
ment, and  the  galling  feeling  of  inferiority  sent  the  blood 
with  a  throbbing  current  through  his  temples,  and  covered 
his  face  with  a  deep  flush.  He  retorted  his  own  isolation 
against  those  he  had  so  strenuously  avoided,  and  accused 
them  of  the  very  fault  of  which  he  was  himself  guilty.  "My 
uncle  is  more  distant  to  me  than  ever,"  muttered  he,  '*  and 
even  Herbert,  too,  —  Herbert,  that  used  to  look  up  to  and 
rely  on  me,  —  even  he  shuns  me."  He  did  not  utter  his 
cousin's  name,  but  a  single  tear,  that  rolled  heavily  down 
his  cheek,  and  seemed  to  make  it  tremble  as  it  passed, 
showed  that  another  and  a  deeper  spring  of  sorrow  was 
opened  in  his  heart.  With  a  sudden  gesture  of  impatience 
he  roused  himself  from  his  musing,  and  hastily  descending 
the  stair,  he  crossed  the  old  courtyard,  and,  without  any 
fixed  resolve  as  to  his  course,  walked  down  the  road ;  nor 
was  it  until  after  proceeding  some  distance  that  he  perceived 
he  was  rapidly  gaining  on  the  little  party  on  their  way  to 
the  Lodge ;  then  he  quitted  the  high  road,  and  soon  lost 
himself  in  one  of  the  mountain  glens. 

As  for  the  others,  it  was  indeed  a  day  of  unaccustomed 
pleasure,  and  such  as  rarely  presented  itself  in  that  solitary 
valley.  All  that  kindness  and  hospitality  could  suggest  was 
done  by  the  family  at  the  Lodge  to  make  their  visit  agree- 
able; and  while  Sir  Marmaduke  vied  with  his  son  and 
daughter  in  courteous  attentions  to  his  guests,  they,  on  their 
part,  displayed  the  happy  consciousness  of  these  civilities 
by  efforts  to  please  not  less  successful. 


244  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Sir  Archy  —  albeit  the  faculty  had  long  lain  in  disuse  — 
was  possessed  of  conversational  powers  of  a  high  order,  and 
could  blend  his  observation  of  passing  events  with  the  wis- 
dom derived  from  reflection,  and  the  experience  of  long 
intercourse  with  the  world ;  while,  as  if  to  relieve  the  sombre 
coloring  of  his  thoughts,  Kate's  lively  sallies  and  sparkling 
repartees  lit  up  the  picture,  and  gave  it  both  brilliancy  and 
action.  The  conversation  ranged  freely  over  the  topics 
which  form  the  staple  of  polite  intercourse  in  the  world  of 
the  cultivated  and  the  fashionable ;  and  although  Sir  Archy 
had  long  been  removed  from  such  companionship,  it  was 
easy  to  perceive  how  naturally  he  could  revert  to  a  class  of 
subjects  with  which  he  had  once  been  familiar. 

It  was  thus  alternating  remarks  of  the  past  with  allusions 
to  the  present,  —  mingling  grave  and  gay  with  that  happy 
blending  which  springs  from  the  social  intercourse  of  differ- 
ent ages,  —  they  sat,  after  dinner,  watching,  through  the 
unshuttered  window,  the  bright  moonlight  that  streamed 
across  the  glen  and  glittered  on  the  lake,  the  conversation, 
from  some  reference  to  the  scenery,  turned  to  the  condi- 
tion of  Ireland,  and  the  then  state  of  her  people.  Sir  Mar- 
maduke,  notwithstanding  his  late  experiences,  fully  main- 
taining the  accuracy  of  his  own  knowledge  in  matters  which 
have  not  ceased  to  puzzle  even  wiser  heads,  gained  confi- 
dence from  the  cautious  reserve  of  Sir  Archy,  who  rarely 
ventured  an  opinion,  and  never  hazarded  a  direct  assertion. 

"  They  would  have  me  believe,  in  England,"  said  Sir 
Marmaduke,  "  that  Ireland  was  on  the  very  brink  of  a  re- 
bellion ;  that  the  organization  of  revolt  was  perfect,  and 
only  waiting  French  co-operation  to  burst  forth.  But  how 
absurd  such  statements  are  to  us  who  live  amongst  them." 

Sir  Archy  smiled  significantly,  and  shook  his  head. 

"You,  surely,  have  no  fears  on  this  head,  sir?  It  is  not 
possible  to  conceive  a  state  of  more  profound  peace  than 
we  observe  around  us.  Men  do  not  take  up  arms  against 
a  rightful  authority  without  the  working  of  strong  passions 
and  headlong  impulses.  What  is  there  to  indicate  them 
here?" 

"You'll  allow,  Sir  Marmaduke,  they  are  no  over-likely 
to  mak'  ye  a  confidant  if  they  intend  a  rising,"  was  the 
dry  observation  of  M'Nab. 


SOME  OPPOSITE  TRAITS   OF  CHARACTER.  245 

"  True;  but  could  they  conceal  their  intentions  from  me, 
—  that  is  the  question  ?  Think  you  that  I  should  not  have 
discovered  them  long  since,  and  made  them  known  to  the 
Government  ?  " 

"I  trust  you'd  have  done  no  such  thing,  sir,"  interposed 
Fred.  "I  heard  Maitland  say  there  never  was  a  chance 
of  keeping  this  country  down  if  we  did  not  have  a  brush 
with  them  every  thirty  or  forty  years ;  and,  if  I  don't  mis- 
take, the  time  for  a  lesson  has  just  come  round." 

"Is  it  so  certain  on  which  side  is  to  be  the  teacher?" 
said  Kate,  with  a  voice  whose  articulate  distinctness  actu- 
ally electrified  the  party ;  and,  as  it  drew  their  eyes  towards 
her,  heightened  the  flush  that  mantled  on  her  cheek. 

"It  never  occurred  to  me  to  doubt  the  matter,"  said 
Fred,  with  an  air  of  ill-dissembled  mortification. 

"  No  more  than  you  anticipated  it,  perhaps,"  retorted 
she,  quickly;  "and  yet  events  are  happening  every  day 
which  take  the  world  by  surprise.  See  there  !  — look.  That 
mountain  peak  was  dark  but  a  moment  back ;  and  now,  see 
the  blazing  fire  that  has  burst  forth  upon  it !  " 

The  whole  party  started  to  their  feet,  and  drew  near  the 
window,  from  which,  at  a  distance  of  about  two  miles, 
the  red  glare  of  a  fire  was  seen.  It  burned  brightly  for 
some  minutes,  and  then  decaying,  became  extinguished, 
leaving  the  dark  mountain  black  and  gloomy  as  before. 

"What  can  it  mean?"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  in  amaze- 
ment. "  Can  it  be  some  signal  of  the  smugglers?  I  under- 
stand they  still  venture  on  this  coast." 

"  That  mountain  yonder  is  not  seen  from  the  bay,"  said 
Sir  Archy,  thoughtfully.     "  It  can  scarcely  be  that." 

"  I  think  we  must  ask  Miss  O'Donoghue  for  the  expla- 
nation," said  Fred  Travers.  "  She  is  the  only  one  here  not 
surprised  at  its  appearance." 

"  Miss  O'Donoghue  is  one  of  those  who,  you  assert,  are 
to  be  taught;  and,  therefore,  unable  to  teach  others,"  said 
she,  in  a  low  whisper  only  audible  to  Frederick,  who  stood 
beside  her ;  and  he  almost  started  at  the  strange  meaning 
the  words  seemed  to  convey. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


A    WALK    BY    MOONLIGHT. 


The  visit  alluded  to  in  the  last  chapter  formed  the  first  step 
to  au  acquaintance  which  speedily  ripened  into  intimacy. 
Seldom  a  day  passed  without  some  interchange  of  civilities ; 
and  as  they  progressed  in  knowledge  of  each  other  they 
advanced  in  esteem,  so  that,  ere  long,  they  learned  to  regard 
themselves  as  members  of  a  single  family.  The  conventional 
usages  of  society  are  stronger  barriers  against  friendship 
than  the  world  deems  them.  The  life  of  cities  supplies  a 
coinage  of  social  intercourse  which  but  very  imperfectly 
represents  the  value  of  true  feeling ;  while  in  remoter  and 
less-cultivated  regions  men  are  satisfied  to  disencumber 
themselves  of  this  false  currency,  and  deal  frankl}^  and 
openly  with  each  other. 

How  little,  now,  did  Sir  Marmaduke  remember  of  all  Sir 
Archy's  peculiarities  of  manner  and  expression  I  how  seldom 
did  Sybella  think  Kate's  opinions  wild  and  eccentric !  and 
how  difficult  would  it  have  been  to  convince  the  fastidious 
Guardsman  that  the  society  of  St.  James's  possessed  any 
superiority  in  tone  or  elegance  over  the  evenings  at  the 
Lodge. 

The  real  elements  of  mutual  liking  were  present  here  :  the 
discrepancy  of  character  and  taste  —  the  great  differences  of 
age  and  habit  of  thought  —  yet  moulded  into  one  common 
frame  of  esteem  from  the  very  appreciation  of  qualities  in 
others  in  which  each  felt  himself  deficient.  If  Kate  admired 
the  simple  but  high-minded  English  girl,  whose  thoughts 
were  rarely  faulty  save  when  attributing  to  others  higher  and 
purer  motives  than  the  world  abounds  in,  Sybella  looked  up 
with  enthusiastic  delight  to  the  glittering  talents  of  her  Irish 
friend  —  the  warm  and  senerous  slow  of  her  ima2;ination  — 


A   WALK  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

the  brilliant  flashes  of  her  wit  —  the  ready  eloquence  of 
tongue ;  and,  perhaps,  not  least  of  all,  the  intrepid  fearless- 
ness of  her  nature  inspired  her  with  sentiments  of  almost 
awe,  which  seemed  to  deepen  and  not  diminish  her  affection 
for  Kate  O'Donoghue. 

It  might  appear  an  ungenerous  theme  to  dwell  on,  but  how 
often  are  our  friendships  suggested  b}'  self-love  ?  —  how  fre- 
quently are  we  led  to  think  highly  and  speak  praisingly  of 
qualities  the  opposite  to  our  own,  from  the  self-satisfaction 
our  apparent  impartiality  yields  us.  Justice  must,  indeed, 
be  a  great  virtue  when  its  very  shadow  can  ennoble  human 
nature.  Not  such,  however,  were  the  motives  here.  Kate's 
admiration  for  the  unerring  rectitude  of  Sybella's  character 
was  as  free  from  taint  as  was  Sybella's  heartfelt  enthusiasm 
for  the  Irish  girl.  As  for  Frederick  Travers,  the  same  dis- 
similarity in  character  which  made  him  at  first  compare  Kate 
with  his  sister  disadvantageously,  now  induced  him  to  be 
struck  and  fascinated  by  her  qualities.  The  standard  by 
which  he  had  measured  her  she  had  long  since  passed,  in  his 
estimation ;  and  any  idea  of  a  comparison  between  them 
would  now  have  appeared  ridiculous.  It  was  true  many  of 
her  opinions  savored  of  a  nationality  too  strong  for  his 
admiration.  She  was  intensely  Irish  —  or,  at  least,  what  he 
deemed  such.  The  traditions  which,  as  a  child,  she  had 
listened  to  with  eager  delight,  had  given  a  bias  to  her  mind 
that  grew  more  confirmed  with  years.  The  immediate  cir- 
cumstances of  her  own  family  added  to  this  feeling,  and  her 
pride  was  tinctured  with  sorrow  at  the  fallen  condition  of 
her  house.  All  her  affection  for  her  cousins  could  not  blind 
her  to  then-  great  defects.  In  Mark  she  saw  one  whose 
spirit  seemed  crushed  and  stunned,  and  not  awakened  by  the 
pressure  of  misfortune.  Herbert,  with  all  his  kindliness  of 
nature  and  open-heartedness,  appeared  more  disposed  to 
enjoy  the  sunshine  of  life  than  to  prepare  himself  to  buffet 
with  its  storms. 

How  often  she  wished  she  had  been  a  boy ;  how  many  a 
da3^-dream  floated  before  her  of  such  a  career  as  she  might 
have  struck  out!  Ireland  a  nation  —  her  "own  sons  her 
rulers  "  —  had  been  the  theme  of  many  an  oft-heard  tale ; 
and  there  was  a  poetry  in  the  sentiment  of  a  people  recalled 


248  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

to  a  long-lost,  long-sought-for  nationality,  that  excited  and 
exalted  her  imagination. 

Her  convent  education  had  stored  her  mind  with  narratives 
of  native  suffering  and  Saxon  tyranny,  and  she  longed  for 
the  day  of  retribution  on  the  "  proud  invaders."  Great  was 
her  disappointment  at  finding  her  cousins  so  dead  to  every 
feeling  of  this  kind ;  and  she  preferred  the  chivalrous  ardor 
of  the  French  soldier  to  the  sluggish  apathy  of  Mark,  or  the 
happy  indolence  of  Herbert  O'Donoghue. 

Had  Frederick  Travers  been  an  Irishman,  would  he  have 
borne  his  country's  wrongs  so  meekly?  was  a  reflection 
that  more  than  once  occurred  to  her  mind,  and  never  more 
powerfully  than  on  parting  with  him  the  very  evening  we 
have  mentioned.  He  had  accompanied  them  on  their  return 
to  Carrignacurra,  which,  as  the  night  was  fine  and  the  moon 
nearly  at  her  full,  they  did  on  foot.  Kate,  who  rarely 
accepted  an  arm  when  walking,  had,  by  some  accident, 
taken  his  on  this  occasion.  Sir  Archy  leaning  on  that  of 
Herbert. 

The  young  soldier  listened  with  a  high-beating  heart  as 
she  related  an  incident  of  which  the  spot  they  were  travers- 
ing had  been  the  scene.  It  was  a  faithless  massacre  of  a 
chieftain  and  his  followers,  seduced  under  pretences  of 
friendship  and  a  pledge  of  amity. 

"They  told  him,"  said  she,  "that  his  young  wife,  who 
had  been  carried  away  by  force,  and  imprisoned  for  two 
entire  years,  should  on  this  spot  be  restored  to  him;  that 
he  had  but  to  come,  with  twelve  of  his  retainers,  unarmed, 
save  with  their  swords,  and  that  here,  where  we  now  stand, 
she  should  once  more  become  his  own.  The  hour  was  sun- 
set, and  he  waited  with  anxious  impatience,  beneath  that 
tall  cliff  yonder,  where  you  can  see  the  deep  cleft.  Strange 
enough,  they  have  added  a  legend  to  the  true  story,  as  if 
their  wrongs  could  derive  any  force  from  fiction !  and  they 
tell  you  still  that  the  great  rock  was  never  split  until  that 
night.  Their  name  for  it,  in  Irish,  is  'the  rent,'  or  'the 
ruptured  pledge.'     Do  I  weary  you  with  these  old  tales?  " 

"No,  no;  go  on,  I  entreat  you.  I  cannot  say  how  the 
scene  increases  its  fascinations  from  connection  with  your 
story." 


A  WALK  BY  MOONLIGHT.  249 

"He  stood  yonder,  where  the  black  shadow  now  crosses 
the  road,  and  having  dismounted,  he  gave  his  horse  to  one 
of  his  attendants,  and  walked,  with  an  anxious  heart,  up 
and  down,  waiting  for  their  approach. 

"There  was  less  sympathy  among  his  followers  for  their 
chieftain's  sorrow  than  might  be  expected;  for  she  was  not 
a  native  born,  but  the  daughter  of  an  English  earl.  He, 
perhaps,  loved  her  the  more;  her  very  friendlessness  was 
another  tie  between  them." 

"  Says  the  legend  so,  or  is  this  a  mere  suspicion  on  your 
part?"  whispered  Travers,   softly. 

"I  scarcely  know,"  continued  Kate,  with  an  accent  less 
assured  than  before.  '"I  believe  I  tell  you  the  tale  as  I 
have  heard  it ;  but  why  may  she  not  have  been  his  own  in 
every  sentiment  and  thought?  why  not  have  imbibed  the 
right  from  him  she  learned  to  love  ?  "  The  last  words  were 
scarcely  uttered,  when,  with  a  sudden  exclamation,  less  of 
fear  than  astonishment,  Kate  grasped  Travers's  arm,  and 
exclaimed,    "Did  you  see  that?" 

"I  thought  some  dark  object  moved  by  the  roadside." 

"I  saw  a  man  pass,  as  if  from  behind  us,  and  gain  the 
thicket  yonder;  he  was  alone,  however." 

"And  I  am  armed,"  said  Travers,  coolly. 

"And  if  you  were  not,"  replied  she,  proudly,  "an 
O'Donoghue  has  nothing  to  fear  in  the  valley  of  Gienflesk. 
Let  us  join  my  uncle,  however,  for  I  see  he  has  left  us 
some  distance  behind  him ;  "  and  while  they  hastened  for- 
ward she  resumed  her  story  with  the  same  unconcern  as 
before  the  interruption. 

Travers  listened  eagerly,  —  less,  it  is  true,  in  sympathy 
with  the  story  than  in  delight  at  the  impassioned  eloquence 
of  her  who  related  it.  "  Such,"  said  she,  as  they  turned  to 
bid  him  farewell  at  the  old  keep  on  the  roadside,  — "such 
are  the  traditions  of  our  land ;  they  vary  in  time,  and  place, 
and  persons;  but  they  have  only  one  moral  through  all,  — 
what  a  terrible  thing  is  slavery !  " 

Travers  endeavored  to  turn  the  application  of  her  speech 
by  some  commonplace  compliment  about  her  own  powers  of 
inflicting  bondage ;  but  she  stopped  him  suddenly  with,  — 

"Nay,  nay;  these  are  not  jesting  themes,  although  you 


250  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

may  deem  them  unsuited  for  one  as  ignorant  and  inexpe- 
rienced as  I  am ;  nor  will  I  speak  of  them  again,  if  they 
serve  but  as  matter  for  laughter." 

Amid  his  protestations  of  innocence  against  this  charge, 
which,  in  his  ardor,  he  pushed  farther  than  calmer  judg- 
ment might  warrant,  they  shook  hands  cordially,  and 
parted. 

"He  's  a  fine-hearted  fellow,  too,"  thought  Kate,  as  she 
slowl}^  moved  along  in  silence.  "Saxon  though  he  be, 
there  's  a  chord  in  his  bosom  that  responds  to  the  touch  of 
truth  and  honor." 

"Noble  girl,"  said  Frederick,  half  aloud,  "it  would  be 
hard  to  rebuke  treason,  when  spoken  from  such  lips ; "  then 
added,  with  a  smile,  "it's  no  fair  temptation  to  expose 
even  a  Guardsman  to." 

And  thus  each  speculated  on  the  character  of  the  other, 
and  fancied  how,  by  their  own  influence,  it  might  be 
fashioned  and  moulded  to  a  better  form;  nor  was  their 
interest  lessened  in  each  other's  fortune  from  the  fact  that 
it  seemed  to  involve  so  much  of  mutual  interposition. 

"You  should  not  walk  this  road  so  late,"  said  Mark 
O'Donoghue,  almost  rudely,  as  he  opened  the  door  to  admit 
them.  "The  smugglers  are  on  the  coast  now,  and  fre- 
quently come  up  the  glen  at  nightfall." 

"Why  not  have  come  to  be  our  escort,  then?"  said  Kate, 
smiling. 

"What,  with  the  gay  soldier  for  your  guard?"  said  he, 
bitterly. 

"How  knew  you  that,  my  worthy  cousin?"  said  Kate, 
rapidly;  and  then,  with  a  significant  shake  of  the  head, 
added,  in  a  whisper,  "I  see  there  are  marauders  about." 

Mark  blushed  till  his  face  became  scarlet,  and,  turning 
abruptly  away,  sought  his  own  room  in  silence. 


I 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

A    DAY    OF    DIFFICULT    NEGOTIATIONS. 

The  time  was  now  approaching  when  the  Traverses  were 
to  remove  to  the  capital,  and,  at  Sybella's  m-gent  entreaty. 
Sir  Marmaduke  was  induced  to  request  that  Kate  O'Dono- 
ghue  might  accompany  them  in  their  visit,  and  thus  enjoy 
the  pleasures  of  a  winter  in  Dublin,  then  second  to  no  city 
of  Europe  in  all  that  constituted  social  excellence.  The 
note  of  invitation,  couched  in  terms  the  most  flattering  and 
cordial,  arrived  when  the  O'Donoghues  were  seated  at 
breakfast,  and,  as  was  usual  on  all  occasions  of  correspon- 
dence, was  opened  by  Kate  herself.  Scarcely  had  she 
thrown  her  eyes  over  its  contents,  when,  with  a  heightened 
color,  and  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice,  she  passed  the  letter 
across  the  table  to  her  uncle,  and  said,  "  This  is  for  yoilr 
consideration,  sir." 

"Then  you  must  read  it  for  me,  Kate,"  replied  he,  "for 
my  ears  have  outlived  my  eyes." 

"Shall  I  do  it?"  interposed  Sir  Archy,  who,  having 
remarked  some  hesitation  in  Kate's  manner,  came  thus 
good-naturedly  to  the  rescue. 

"With  all  my  heart,  Archy,"  said  the  O'Donoghue;  "or 
rather,  if  you  would  do  me  a  favor,  just  tell  me  what  it  is 
about,  —  polite  correspondence  affects  me  pretty  much  as 
the  ceremonies  of  bowing  and  salutation,  when  I  have  a  fit 
of  the  gout.  I  become  devilish  impatient,  and  would  give 
the  world  it  was  all  over,  and  that  I  were  back  in  my  easy- 
chair  again." 

"The  politeness  in  the  present  case  lies  less  in  the  style 
than  in  the  substance,"  said  Sir  Archy.  "This  is  a  vara 
civil,  though,  I  must  say,  to  me  a  vara  unwelcome  proposal, 


252  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

to  take  our  darling  Kate  away  from  us,  for  a  season,  and 
show  her  some  of  the  life  and  gayeties  of  the  capital." 

"Well,  that  is  handsomely  done,  at  least,"  said  the 
O'Donoghue,  whose  first  thought  sprang  from  gratified 
pride  at  the  palpable  evidence  of  social  consideration ;  then 
suddenly  changing  his  tone,  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "but 
what  says  Kate  herself?" 

Mark  turned  his  eyes  full  upon  her  as  his  father  said 
these  words,  and  as  a  deadly  pallor  came  over  his  face,  he 
sat  steadfastly  awaiting  her  reply,  like  one  expecting  the 
decree  of  a  judge. 

"Kate  feels  too  happy  here,  sir,  to  risk  anything  by  a 
change,"  replied  she,  avoiding,  even  for  a  second,  to  look 
towards  where  Mark  was  sitting. 

"But  you  must  not  lose  such  an  opportunity,  dearest 
Kate,"  whispered  Herbert  eagerly  into  her  ear.  "These 
are  the  scenes  and  the  places  you  are  used  to,  and  best  fitted 
to  enjoy  and  to  adorn;  and  besides  — " 

A  stern  frown  from  Mark,  who,  if  he  had  not  overheard 
the  speech,  seemed  to  have  guessed  its  import,  suddenly 
arrested  the  youth,  who  now  looked  overwhelmed  with 
confusion. 

"We  are  a  divided  cabinet,  that  I  see  plainly  enough, 
Kate,"  said  O'Donoghue;  "though,  if  our  hearts  were  to 
speak  out,  I  'd  warrant  they  would  be  of  one  mind.  Still, 
this  would  be  a  selfish  verdict,  my  dear  girl,  and  a  poor 
requital  for  all  the  happiness  you  have  brought  back  to 
these  old  walls ; "  and  the  words  were  spoken  with  a  degree 
of  feeling  that  made  all  indisposed  to  break  the  silence  that 
followed. 

"I  should  like  to  see  the  capital,  I  own,"  said  Kate,  "if 
my  absence  were  to  be  a  short  one." 

"And  I  wad  hae  nae  objection  the  capital  should  see 
yersel',"  said  Sir  Arch}^,  "albeit  I  may  lose  a  sweetheart 
by  my  generosity." 

"Have  no  fears  of  my  fidelity,"  said  Kate,  laughing,  as 
she  extended  her  hand  towards  him,  while,  with  antique 
gallantry,  he  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  "The  youth  of  this 
land  are  not,  so  far  as  my  little  experience  goes,  likely  to 
supplant  so  true  an  admirer;  they  who  have  so  little  devotion 


A  DAY   OF  DIFFICULT  NEGOTIATIONS. 

to  their  country  may  well  be  suspected  of  having  less 
its  daughters." 

Mark's  brow  grew  dark  with  the  flush  that  covered  his 
face  and  forehead  in  an  instant;  he  bent  his  head  almost  to 
the  table  to  avoid  observation,  and,  as  if  in  the  distraction 
of  the  moment,  he  took  up  the  note  and  seemed  to  pore  over 
its  contents;  then,  suddenly  crushing  it  in  his  hand,  he 
arose  from  the  table  and  left  the  room. 

"My  sweet  Kate,"  said  Sir  Archy,  as  he  led  her  within 
the  deep  recess  of  a  window,  "tak'  care  ye  dinna  light  up 
a  flame  of  treason  where  ye  only  hoped  to  warm  a  glow  of 
patriotism;  such  eyes  and  lips  as  yours  are  but  too  ready 
teachers :  be  cautious,  lassie.  This  country,  however  others 
may  think,  is  on  the  eve  of  some  mighty  struggle ;  the  peo- 
ple have  abandoned  many  of  their  old  grudges,  and  seem 
disposed  to  unite." 

''And  the  gentry,  — where  are  they  who  should  stand  at 
their  head  and  share  their  fortunes?"  cried  Kate,  eagerly; 
for  the  warning,  so  far  from  conveying  the  intended  moral, 
only  stimulated  her  ardor  and  excited  her  curiosity. 

"The  gentry,"  replied  Sir  Archy,  in  a  firm,  decided  tone^ 
"  are  better  satisfied  to  live  under  a  government  they  dis- 
like than  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  rabble  they  despise.  I 
hae  lived  langer  than  you  in  this  dreary  world,  lassie,  and, 
trust  me,  the  poetry  of  patriotism  has  little  relation  to  the 
revengeful  fury  of  rebellion.  You  wish  freedom  for  those 
who  cannot  enjoy  the  portion  of  it  they  possess.  It  is  time 
to  outlive  the  evil  memories  of  the  past.  We  want  here  — 
time  to  blunt  the  acuteness  of  former  and  long-past  suffer- 
ings; time  to  make  traditions  so  far  forgotten  as  to  be 
inapplicable  to  the  present;  time  to  read  the  homely  lesson 
that  one-half  the  energy  a  people  can  expend  in  revolt  will 
raise  them  in  the  rank  of  civilized  and  cultivated  beings." 

"Time  to  make  Irishmen  forget  that  the  land  of  their 
birth  was  ever  other  than  an  English  province,"  added 
Kate,  impetuously.  "No,  no,  it  was  not  thus  your  own 
brave  countrymen  understood  their  'devoirs.'" 

"  They  rallied  round  the  standard  of  a  prince  they  loved, 
lassie,"  said  M'Nab,  in  a  tone  whose  fen^or  contrasted  with 
his  former  accent. 


254  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"And  will  you  tell  me  that  the  principle  of  freedom  is 
not  more  sacred  than  the  person  of  the  sovereign  ?  "  said 
Kate,   tauntingl3\ 

"There  can  be  nae  mistake  about  the  one,  but  folks  may 
have  vara  unsettled  notions  of  the  other,"  said  he,  dryly; 
"but  we  maunna  quarrel,  Kate  dear:  our  time  is  e'en  too 
short  already.     Sit  ye  down  and  sing  me  a  sang." 

"It  shall  be  a  rebel  one,  then,  I  promise  you,"  replied 
she,  with  an  air  of  defiance  which  it  was  impossible  to  pro- 
nounce more  real  or  assumed.  "But  here  comes  a  visitor 
to  interrupt  us,  and  so  your  loyalty  is  saved  for  this  time." 

The  observation  was  made  in  reference  to  a  traveller, 
who,  seated  in  a  very  antique-looking  dennet,  was  seen 
slowly  laboring  his  wearied  horse  up  the  steep  ascent  to  the 
castle. 

"It's  Swaby,  father,"  cried  Herbert,  who  immediately 
recognized  the  equipage  of  the  Cork  attorney,  and  felt  a 
certain  uneasiness  come  over  him  at  the  unexpected 
appearance. 

"What  brings  him  down  to  these  parts?  "  said  the 
O'Donoghue,  affecting  an  air  of  surprise.  "On  his  way  to 
Killarney,  perhaps.     Well,  well,  they  may  let  him  in." 

The  announcement  did  not,  to  all  appearance,  afford 
much  pleasure  to  the  others ;  for  scarcely  had  the  door-bell 
ceased  its  jingle,  when  each  quitted  the  drawing-room, 
leaving  O'Donoghue  alone  to  receive  his  man  of  law. 

Although  the  O'Donoghue  waited  with  some  impatience 
for  the  entrance  of  his  legal  adviser,  that  worthy  man  did 
not  make  his  appearance  at  once,  his  progress  to  the  draw- 
ing-room being  arrested  by  Sir  Archy,  who,  with  a  signifi- 
cant gesture,  motioned  him  to  follow  him  to  his  chamber. 

"I  will  not  detain  you  many  minutes,  Mr.  Swaby,"  said 
he,  as  he  made  signs  for  him  to  be  seated.  "  I  hae  a  sma' 
matter  of  business  in  which  you  can  serve  me.  I  need 
scarcely  observe  I  reckon  on  your  secrecy." 

Mr.  Swaby  closed  one  eye,  and  placed  the  tip  of  his  finger 
on  his  nose,  —  a  pantomime  intended  to  represent  the  most 
perfect  fidelity. 

"I  happen,"  resumed  Sir  Arch}',  apparently  satisfied 
with  this  pledge,  —  "I  happen  at  this  moment  to  need  a 


A  DAY  OF  DIFFICULT  NEGOTIATIONS.  255 

certain  sum  of  money,  and  would  -wish  to  receive  it  on 
these  securities.  They  are  title-deeds  of  a  property,  which, 
for  reasons  I  have  no  leisure  at  this  moment  to  explain,  is 
at  present  held  by  a  distant  relative  in  trust  for  my  heir. 
You  may  perceive  that  the  value  is  considerable ;  "  and  he 
pointed  to  a  formidable  array  of  figures  which  covered  one 
of  the  margins.  "The  sum  I  require  is  only  a  thousand 
pounds,  —  five  hundred  at  once,  immediately ;  the  remainder 
in  a  year  hence.     Can  this  be  arranged?" 

''Money  was  never  so  scarce,"  said  Swaby,  as  he  wiped 
his  spectacles  and  unfolded  one  of  the  cumbrous  parch- 
ments. ''  Devil  take  me  if  I  know  where  it 's  all  gone  to. 
It  was  only  last  week  I  was  trying  to  raise  five  thousand 
for  old  Hoare  on  the  Ballyrickau  property,  and  I  could  not 
get  any  one  to  advance  me  sixpence.  The  country  is  un- 
settled, you  see.  There  's  a  notion  abroad  that  we  '11  have 
a  rising  soon,  and  who  knows  what 's  to  become  of  landed 
property  after." 

'•This  estate  is  in  Perth,"  said  M'Nab,  tapping  the  deeds 
with  his  finger. 

"So  I  perceive,"  replied  Swaby;  "and  they  have  no 
objection  to  a  'shindy  '  there,  too,  sometimes.  The  Pre- 
tender got  some  of  your  countrymen  into  a  pretty  scrape 
with  his  tricks.  There  are  fools  to  be  had  for  asking 
everywhere." 

"We  will  no  discuss  this  question  just  noo,"  said  Sir 
Archy,  snappishly;  "and,  to  return  to  the  main  point, 
please  to  inform  me,  is  this  loan  impracticable  ?  " 

"I  did  n't  say  it  was,  all  out,"  said  Swaby.  "In  about  a 
week  or  two  —  " 

"I  must  know  before  three  days,"  interrupted  M'Nab. 

''His  honor's  waiting  for  Mr.  Swaby,"  said  Kerry,  who 
now  appeared  in  the  room,  without  either  of  the  others 
having  noticed  his  entrance. 

Sir  Archy  rose  with  an  angry  brow,  but  spoke  not  a 
syllable,  while  he  motioned  Kerry  to  leave  the  room. 

"You  must  join  my  brother-in-law,  sir,"  said  he,  at  last; 
"and  if  our  conversation  is  not  already  become  the  gossip 
of  the  house,  I  entreat  of  you  to  keep  it  a  secret." 

"That,  of  course,"  said  Swaby;  "but  I  'm  thinking  I  've 


256  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

hit  on  a  way  to  meet  your  wishes,  so  we  '11  talk  of  the 
matter  again  this  evening;"  and  thus  saying,  he  withdrew, 
leaving  Sir  Arehy  in  a  frame  of  mind  very  far  indeed 
from  tranquil  or  composed. 

Swaby's  surprise  at  his  interview  with  Sir  Archy,  whom 
he  never  had  the  slightest  suspicion  of  possessing  any 
property  whatever,  was  even  surpassed  by  his  astonishment 
on  hearing  the  favorable  turn  of  O'Donoghue's  affairs;  and 
while  he  bestowed  the  requisite  attention  to  follow  the  old 
man's  statement,  his  shrewd  mind  was  also  engaged  in 
speculating  what  probable  results  might  accrue  from  this 
unexpected  piece  of  fortune,  and  how  they  could  best  be 
turned  to  his  own  benefit.  O'Donoghue  was  too  deeply 
interested  in  his  own  schemes  to  question  Swab}^  respecting 
his  business  with  M'Nab,  of  which  Kerry  O'Leary  had 
already  given  him  a  hint.  The  attorney  was,  therefore, 
free  to  deliberate  in  his  own  mind  how  far  he  might  most 
advantageously  turn  the  prosperity  of  the  one  to  the  aid  of 
the  other,  for  the  sole  benefit  of  himself.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary, nor  would  it  conduce  to  the  object  of  this  story,  to 
ask  the  reader's  attention  to  this  interview.  It  will  be 
enough  to  say  that  Swaby  heard  with  pleasure  O'Donoghue's 
disclosure,  recognizing  with  practised  acuteness  how  far 
he  could  turn  such  unlooked-for  prosperity  to  his  own  pur- 
poses, and  subsidize  one  brother-in-law  at  the  expense  of 
both. 

While  thus  each  within  the  limit  of  this  narrow  house- 
hold was  following  out  the  thread  of  his  destiny,  eagerly 
bent  on  his  own  object,  Kate  O'Donoghue  sat  alone  at  the 
window  of  her  chamber,  buried  in  deep  thought.  The  pros- 
pect of  her  approaching  visit  to  the  capital  presented  itself 
in  so  many  aspects  that,  while  offering  pleasures  and 
enjoyments  none  relished  more  highly  than  herself,  she  yet 
saw  difficulties  which  might  render  the  step  unadvisable, 
if  not  perilous.  Of  all  considerations,  money  was  the  one 
which  least  had  occupied  an}^  share  in  her  calculations;  yet 
now  she  bethought  herself  that  expense  must  necessarily  be 
incurred  which  her  uncle's  finances  could  but  ill  afford. 
No  sooner  had  this  thought  occurred  to  her  than  she  was 
amazed  it  had  not  struck  her  before,  and  she  felt  actually 


A  DAY  OF  DIFFICULT   NEGOTIATIONS.  257 

startled  lest,  in  her  eagerness  for  the  promised  pleasure, 
she  had  only  listened  to  the  suggestion  of  selfishness.  In 
a  moment  more  she  determined  to  decline  the  invitation. 
She  was  not  one  to  take  half  measures  when  she  believed  a 
point  of  principle  to  be  engaged;  and  the  only  difficulty 
now  lay  how  and  in  what  manner  to  refuse  an  offer  prof- 
fered with  so  much  kindness.  The  note  itself  must  open 
the  way,  thought  she,  and  at  the  instant  she  remembered 
how  Mark  had  taken  it  from  the  breakfast-table. 

She  heard  his  heavy  step  as  he  paced  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  his  chamber  overhead,  and  without  losing  another 
moment,  hastily  ascended  the  stairs  to  his  door.  Her  hand 
was  already  outstretched  to  knock,  when  suddenly  she  hesi- 
tated ;  a  strange  confusion  came  over  her  faculties.  How 
would  Mark  regard  her  request?  —  would  he  attribute  it  to 
over-eagerness  on  the  subject  of  the  invitation?  Such  were 
questions  which  occurred  to  her;  and  as  quick  came  the 
answer,  "And  let  him  think  so.  I  shall  certainly  not  seek 
to  undeceive  him.  He  alone  of  all  here  has  vouchsafed 
me  neither  any  show  of  his  affection  nor  his  confidence." 
The  flush  mounted  to  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  darkened  with 
the  momentary  excitement ;  and  at  the  same  instant  the  door 
was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  Mark  stood  before  her. 

Such  was  his  astonishment,  however,  that  for  some 
seconds  he  could  not  speak;  when  at  last  he  uttered,  in  a 
low,  deep  voice,  — 

"I  thought  I  heard  a  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  I  am  so 
suspicious  of  that  fellow  Kerry,  who  frequently  plays  the 
eavesdropper  here  —  " 

"Not  when  you  are  alone,  Mark?"  said  Kate,  smiling. 

"Ay,  even  then.  I  have  a  foolish  habit  of  thinking 
aloud,  of  which  I  strive  in  vain  to  break  myself;  and  he 
seems  to  know  it,   too." 

"There  is  another  absent  trick  you  have  acquired  also," 
said  she,  laughing.  "  Do  you  remember  having  carried  off 
the  note  that  came  while  we  were  at  breakfast  ? " 

"Did  I?"  said  he,  reddening.  "Did  I  take  it  off  the 
table?  Yes,  yes;  I  remember  something  of  it  now.  You 
must  forgive  me,  cousin,  if  these  careless  habits  take  the 
shape  of  rudeness."      He  seemed   overwhelmed  with   con- 

VOL.    I. —  17 


258  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

fusion,  as  he  added,  "I  know  not  why  I  put  it  into  my 
pocket;  here  it  is." 

And  so  saying,  he  drew  from  the  breast  of  his  coat  a 
crushed  and  crumpled  paper,  and  gave  it  into  Kate's  hand. 
She  wished  to  say  something  in  reply,  —  something  which 
would  seem  kind  and  good-natured;  but,  somehow,  she 
faltered  and  hesitated.  She  twice  got  as  far  as,  '*'  I  know, 
Mark,  —  I  am  certain,  Mark ;  "  then,  unable  to  say  what, 
perhaps,  her  very  indecision  rendered  more  difficult,  she 
merely  uttered  a  brief  "thank  you,"  and  withdrew. 

"Poor  fellow!  "  said  she,  as  she  re-entered  her  own 
chamber,   "his  is  the  hardest  lot  of  all." 

She  had  often  wished  to  persuade  herself  that  Mark's 
morose,  sullen  humor  was  the  discontent  of  one  who  felt  the 
ignominy  of  an  inglorious  life,  —  that  habits  of  reckless- 
ness had  covered,  but  not  obliterated,  the  traces  of  that 
bold  and  generous  spirit  for  which  his  family  had  been 
long  distinguished ;  and  now,  for  the  first  time,  she  believed 
she  had  fallen  on  the  evidences  of  such  a  temper.  She 
pondered  long  on  this  theme,  and  fancied  how,  under  cir- 
cumstances favorable  to  their  development,  Mark's  good 
qualities  and  courageous  temper  had  won  for  him  both 
fame  and  honor.  "And  here,"  exclaimed  she,  half  aloud, 
—  "here  he  may  live  and  die  a  peasant!"  With  a  deep 
sigh  she  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  and,  as  if  to  turn  her 
thoughts  into  some  channel  less  suggestive  of  gloom,  she 
opened  the  letter  Mark  had  given  her.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  she  cast  her  eyes  over  it  when  she  uttered  a  faint  cry, 
too  faint,  indeed,  to  express  any  mere  sense  of  fear,  but 
in  an  accent  in  which  terror  and  amazement  were  equally 
blended. 

The  epistle  was  a  brief  one,  not  more  than  a  few  lines, 
and  she  had  read  it  at  a  glance,  before  ever  there  was  time 
to  consider  how  far  her  doing  so  was  a  breach  of  confi- 
dence ;  indeed,  the  intense  interest  of  the  contents  left  little 
room  for  any  self-examinings.     It  ran  thus:  — 

Dear  Brother,  —  No  precipitation  —  no  haste  —  nothing  can 
be  done  without  France.  T.  has  now  good  hopes  from  that 
quarter,  and  if  not  30,000,  20,000  or  at  least  15,000  will  be  given, 


A  DAY  OF  DIFFICULT  NEGOTIATIONS.  259 

and  arms  for  double  the  number.  Youghal  is  talked  of  as  a  suit- 
able spot ;  and  H.  has  sent  charts,  etc.,  over.  Above  all,  be 
patient ;  trust  no  rumors,  and  rely  on  us  for  the  earliest  and  the 
safest  intelligence.  L.  will  hand  you  this.  You  must  contrive  to 
learn  the  cipher,  as  any  correspondence  discovered  would  ruin  all. 

Y''ours  ever,  and  in  the  cause, 

H.  R. 

Here,  then,  was  the  youth  she  had  been  commiserating 
for  his  career  of  lowly  and  unambitious  hopes  —  here  the 
mere  peasant  —  the  accomplice  of  some  deep  and  desperate 
plot,  in  which  the  arms  of  France  should  be  employed 
against  the  government  of  England.  Was  this  the  secret 
of  his  preoccupation  and  his  gloom?  Was  it  to  concen- 
trate his  faculties  on  such  a  scheme  that  he  lived  this  lonely 
and  secluded  life?  "Oh,  Mark,  Mark,  how  have  I  mis- 
judged you!  '*  she  exclaimed,  and,  as  she  uttered  the  words, 
came  the  thought,  quick  as  a  lightning  flash,  to  her  mind,  — 
what  terrible  hazards  such  a  temperament  as  his  must  incur 
in  an  enterprise  like  this;  without  experience  of  men  or 
any  knowledge  of  the  world  whatever;  without  habitual 
prudence  or  caution  of  any  kind, —  the  very  fact  of  his  mis- 
taking the  letter  a  palpable  evidence  of  his  unfitness  for 
trust.  Reckless  by  nature,  more  desperate  still  from  the 
fallen  fortunes  of  his  house,  what  would  become  of  him? 
Others  would  wait  the  time  and  calculate  their  chances. 
He  would  listen  to  nothing  but  the  call  of  danger.  She 
knew  him  well,  from  boyhood  upwards,  and  had  seen  him 
often  more  fascinated  by  peril  than  others  were  by  pleasure. 

As  she  reasoned  thus,  her  thoughts  insensibly  turned  to 
all  the  dangers  of  such  an  enterprise  as  she  believed  him 
engaged  in.  The  fascinating  visions  of  a  speculative 
patriotism  soon  gave  way  before  the  terrors  she  now  con- 
jured up.  She  knew  he  was  the  only  tie  that  bound  his 
father  to  existence,  and  that  any  misfortune  to  Mark  would 
be  the  old  man's  death-blow.  Nor  were  these  the  most 
poignant  of  her  reflections,  for  she  now  remembered  how 
often  she  had  alluded  tauntingly  to  those  who  lived  a  life 
of  mean  or  inglorious  ambition;  how  frequently  she  had 
scoffed  at  the  miserable  part  of  such  as,  endowed  with  high 


260  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

names  and  ancient  lineage,  evinced  no  desire  to  emerge 
from  an  ignoble  position,  and  assume  a  station  of  eminence 
and  power;  could  she,  then,  have  contributed  to  this  youth's 
rash  step,  —  had  her  idle  words  and  random  speeches 
driven  him  to  embrace  a  cause  where  his  passions  and  not 
his  judgment  were  interested?  What  misery  was  in  this 
fear ! 

Each  moment  increased  the  agony  of  this  reflection,  while 
her  doubts  as  to  how  she  ought  to  act  thickened  around  her. 
Sir  Archy  alone  was  capable  of  advising  her;  his  calm  and 
unbiassed  reason  would  be  now  invaluable:  but  dare  she, 
even  to  him,  make  use  of  a  confidence  thus  accidentally 
obtained?  Would  Mark  —  could  he  —  ever  forgive  her? 
And  how  many  others  might  such  a  disclosure  compromise? 
In  this  dilemma  she  knew  no  course  open  to  her  but  one,  — 
to  address  herself  at  once  to  Mark,  to  explain  how  his 
secret  had  become  known,  to  learn  from  him  as  much  as 
lay  in  her  power  of  the  dangers  and  difficulties  of  the  medi- 
tated revolt,  and  if  unable  to  dissuade  him  from  participa- 
tion, at  least  to  mingle  with  his  resolves  all  she  could  of 
prudence  or  good  counsel.  The  determination  was  scarcely 
formed  when  she  was  once  more  at  the  door  of  his  chamber ; 
she  knocked  twice,  without  any  reply  following,  then  gently 
opened  the  door.  The  room  was  vacant,  he  was  gone.  "I 
will  write  to  him,"  said  she,  hurriedly,  and,  with  this  new 
resolve,  hastened  to  her  chamber,  and  began  a  letter. 

The  task  she  proposed  to  herself  w^as  not  so  easy  of 
accomplishment.  A  dozen  times  she  endeavored,  while 
explaining  the  accident  that  divulged  his  secret,  to  impress 
him  with  the  hazard  of  an  undertaking  so  palpably  depicted, 
and  to  the  safe  keeping  of  which  his  own  carelessness 
might  prove  fatal;  but  each  effort  dissatisfied  her.  In  one 
place  she  seemed  not  to  have  sufficiently  apologized  for  her 
unauthorized  cognizance  of  his  note;  in  another,  the  stress 
she  laid  upon  this  very  point  struck  her  as  too  selfish  and 
too  personal  in  a  case  where  another's  interests  were  the 
real  consideration  at  issue;  and  even  when  presenting 
before  him  the  vicissitudes  of  fortune  to  which  his  ven- 
turous career  would  expose  him,  she  felt  how  every  word 
contradicted  the  tenor  of   her  own  assertions  for   many  a 


A  DAY  or  DIFFICULT  NEGOTIATIONS.  261 

day  and  week  previous.  In  utter  despair  how  to  act,  she 
ended  by  enclosing  the  letter  with  merely  these  few 
words :  — 

1  have  read  the  enclosed,  but  your  secret  is  safe  with  me. 

K.  O'D. 

This  done,  she  sealed  the  packet,  and  had  just  written 
the  address  when,  with  a  tap  at  the  door.  Sir  Archy  entered, 
and  approached  the  table. 

With  a  tact  and  delicacy  he  well  understood,  Sir  Archy 
explained  the  object  of  his  visit, — to  press  upon  Kate's 
acceptance  a  sum  of  money  sufficient  for  her  outlay  in  the 
capital.  The  tone  of  half  authority  he  assumed  disarmed 
her  at  once,  and  made  her  doubt  how  far  she  could  feel 
justified  in  opposing  the  wishes  of  her  friends  concerning 
her. 

''Then  you  really  desire  I  should  go  to  Dublin?"  said 
she. 

''I  do,  Kate,  for  many  reasons,  — reasons  which  I  shall 
have  little  difficulty  in  explaining  to  you  hereafter.'* 

"I  half  regret  I  ever  thought  of  it,'*  said  Kate,  speaking 
her  thoughts  unconsciously  aloud. 

"Not  the  less  reason,  perhaps,  for  going,"  said  Sir 
Archy,  dryly;  while  at  the  same  moment  his  eye  caught  the 
letter  bearing  Mark  O'Donoghue's  name. 

Kate  saw  on  what  his  glance  was  fixed,  and  grew  red 
with  shame  and  confusion. 

"Be  it  so  then,  uncle,"  said  she,  resolutely.  "I  do  not 
seek  to  know  the  reasons  you  speak  of ;  for  if  you  were  to 
ask  my  own  against  the  project,  I  should  not  be  able  to 
frame  them:  it  was  mere  caprice." 

"I  hope  so,  dearest  Kate,"  said  he,  with  a  tone  of  deep 
affection,  —  "I  hope  so,  with  all  my  heart; "  and  thus  say- 
ing, he  pressed  her  hand  fervently  between  his  own  and  left 
the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

A    LAST    EVENING    AT    HOME. 

With  the  experience  of  past  events  to  guide  us,  it  would 
appear  now  that  a  most  unaccountable  apathy  existed  in 
the  English  Cabinet  of  the  period  with  regard  to  the  plan 
of  invasion  meditated  against  Ireland  by  France ;  nor  is  it 
easy  to  determine  whether  this  indifference  proceeded  more 
from  ignorance  of  the  danger,  or  that  amount  of  informa- 
tion concerning  it  which  disposed  the  Minister  to  regard  it 
as  little  important. 

From  whatever  cause  proceeding,  one  thing  is  sufficiently 
clear,  —  the  emissaries  of  France  pervaded  the  country  in 
every  part  without  impediment  or  molestation;  statistical 
information  the  most  minute  was  forwarded  to  Paris  every 
week.  The  state  of  popular  opinion,  the  condition  of 
parties,  the  amount  of  troops  disposable  by  Government, 
even  the  spirit  which  animated  them,  were  reported  and 
commented  on,  and  made  the  subject  of  discussion  in  the 
"  bureau "  of  the  War  Minister  of  France.  To  such  an 
extent  was  this  system  carried  that  more  than  once  the 
French  authorities  became  suspicious  regarding  the  veracity 
of  statements,  from  the  very  facility  with  which  their 
details  were  communicated,  and  hinted  that  such  regularity 
in  correspondence  might  be  owing  to  the  polite  attentions 
of  the  English  Cabinet;  and  to  this  distrust  is  in  a  great 
measure  to  be  attributed  the  vacillatins^  and  hesitatinoj 
policy  which  marked  their  own  deliberations. 

Tone's  letters  show  the  wearisome  toil  of  his  negotia- 
tion; the  assurances  of  aid,  obtained  after  months  of  pain- 
ful, harassing  solicitation,  deferred  or  made  dependent  on 
some  almost  impossible  conditions;  guarantees  demanded 
from  him  which  he  neither  could  nor  would  accord ;  infor- 


A  LAST  EVENING  AT  HOME.  263 

mation  sought,  which,  were  they  in  actual  possession  of  the 
country,  would  have  been  a  matter  of  difficult  acquisition; 
and,  after  all,  when  the  promised  assistance  was  granted, 
it  came  coupled  with  hints  and  acknowledgments  that  the 
independence  of  Ireland  was  nothing  in  their  eyes,  save 
as  inflicting  a  death-blow  to  the  power  and  greatness  of 
England. 

In  fact,  neither  party  was  satisfied  with  the  compact  long 
before  the  time  of  putting  it  in  operation  arrived.  Mean- 
while, the  insurgents  spared  no  efforts  to  organize  a  power- 
ful body  among  the  peasantry,  and,  at  least  numerically,  to 
announce  to  France  a  strong  and  effective  co-operation. 
Such  reports  were  necessary  to  enable  Tone  to  press  his 
demand  more  energetically;  and  although  he  never  could 
have  deceived  himself  as  to  the  inutility  of  such  undis- 
ciplined and  almost  unarmed  masses,  still  they  looked 
plausible  on  paper,  and  vouched  for  the  willingness  of  the 
people  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  England. 

It  is  now  w^ell  known  that  the  French  party  in  Ireland 
was  really  very  small.  The  dreadful  wrongs  inflicted  on  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  during  the  Revolution  could  not  be 
forgotten  or  forgiven  by  that  priesthood,  who  were  their 
brethren;  nor  could  it  be  supposed  that  they  would  lend  a 
willing  aid  to  further  a  cause  which  began  its  march  to 
freedom  over  the  ashes  of  their  Church.  Such  as  were  best 
capable  of  pronouncing  on  the  project  —  those  educated  in 
France  —  were  naturally  fearful  of  a  repetition  at  home  of 
the  terrible  scenes  they  had  witnessed  abroad,  and  thus  the 
"  patriots  "  lost  the  aid  which,  more  than  any  other,  could 
have  stirred  the  heart  of  the  nation.  Abstract  principles 
of  liberty  are  not  the  most  effective  appeals  to  a  people; 
and  although  the  French  agents  were  profuse  of  promises, 
and  the  theme  of  English  oppression  could  be  chanted  with 
innumerable  variations,  the  right  chord  of  native  sentiment 
was  never  touched,  and  few  joined  the  cause  save  those 
who,  in  ever}^  country  and  in  every  age,  are  patriots, 
—  because  they  are  paupers.  Some,  indeed,  like  the  3'oung 
O'Donoghue,  were  sincere  and  determined.  Drawn  in  at 
first  by  impulses  more  purely  personal  than  patriotic,  they 
soon  learned  to  take  a  deep  interest  in  the  game,  and  grew 


264  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

fascinated  with  a  scheme  which  exalted  themselves  into 
positions  of  trust  and  importance.  The  necessity  of  em- 
ploying this  lure,  and  giving  the  adherents  of  the  cause 
their  share  of  power  and  influence,  was  another  great  source 
of  weakness.  Diversity  of  opinion  arose  on  everj-  subject; 
personal  altercations  of  the  bitterest  kind,  reproaches  and 
insinuations,  passed  continually  between  them,  and  it  needed 
all  the  skill  and  management  of  the  chiefs  to  reconcile, 
even  temporarily,  these  discordant  ingredients,  and  main- 
tain any  semblance  of  agreement  among  these  "United 
Irishmen." 

Among  those  who  lived  away  from  such  scenes  of  con- 
flict the  great  complaint  was  the  delay.  "What  are  we 
waiting  for?"  "When  are  we  to  strike  the  blow?"  were 
the  questions  ever  arising;  and  their  inability  to  answer 
such  satisfactorily  to  the  people  only  increased  their  chagrin 
and  disappointment.  If  the  sanguine  betrayed  impatience, 
the  despondent  —  and  there  are  such  in  every  cause  — 
showed  signs  of  vacillation,  and  threw  out  dark  hints  of 
treachery  and  betrayal ;  while  between  both  were  the  great 
masses,  moved  by  every  passing  rumor,  and  as  difficult  to 
restrain  to-day  as  impossible  to  muster  to-morrow. 

Such,  briefly,  was  the  condition  of  the  party  into  which 
Mark  O'Donoghue  threw  his  fortune  in  life,  as  reckless  of 
his  fate  as  he  was  ignorant  of  the  precise  objects  in  view, 
or  the  means  proposed  for  their  accomplishment. 

His  influence  among  the  people  was  considerable.  Inde- 
pendently of  all  claims  resulting  from  his  name  and  family, 
he  was  individually  a  great  favorite  with  them.  Personal 
courage  and  daring,  skill  in  every  manly  exercise,  and 
undaunted  resolution,  are  gifts  which,  when  coupled  with 
a  rough  good  nature  and  a  really  kind  heart,  are  certain 
of  winning  their  way  among  a  wild  and  uncultivated  peo- 
ple; and  thus  Herbert,  who  scarcely  ever  uttered  a  harsh 
word,  whose  daily  visits  to  the  sick  were  a  duty  Sir  Archy 
expected  from  him,  whose  readiness  to  oblige  was  the  theme 
of  every  tongue,  was  less  their  favorite  than  his  brother. 

This  influence,  which,  through  Lauty  Lawler,  was  soon 
reported  to  the  delegates  in  Dublin,  was  the  means  of 
Mark's  being  taken  into  special  confidence,  and  of  a  com- 


A  LAST  EVENING  AT  HOME.  265 

mand  beiug  conferred  on  him,  for  the  duties  and  privileges 
of  which,  he  was  informed,  a  few  days  would  sufficiently 
instruct  him. 

Nearly  a  week  had  elapsed  from  the  day  on  which  Kate 
addressed  her  note  to  Mark,  and  he  had  not  yet  returned 
home.  Such  absences  were  common  enough;  but  now  she 
felt  an  impatience  almost  amounting  to  agony  at  the 
thought  of  what  treasonable  and  dangerous  projects  he 
might  be  engaged  in,  and  the  doubt  became  a  torture  how 
far  she  ought  to  conceal  her  own  discovery  from  others. 

At  length  came  the  evening  before  her  own  departure 
from  Carrignacurra,  and  they  were  seated  around  the  tea- 
table,  thoughtful  and  silent  by  turns,  as  are  they  who  meet 
for  the  last  time  before  separation.  Although  she  heard 
with  pleasure  the  announcement  that  Herbert  would  be  her 
companion  to  the  capital,  where  he  was  about  to  take  up 
his  residence  as  a  student  in  Trinity  College,  her  thoughts 
wandered  away  to  the  gloomier  fortunes  of  Mark,  darker  as 
they  now  seemed  in  comparison  with  the  prospects  opening 
before  his  brother. 

Of  all  the  party  Herbert  alone  was  in  good  spirits.  The 
career  was  about  to  begin  which  had  engrossed  all  his.  boy- 
ish ambition,  —  the  great  race  of  intellect  his  very  dreams 
had  dwelt  upon.  What  visions  did  he  conjure  of  emulative 
ardor  to  carry  off  the  prize  among  his  companions,  and 
win  fame  that  might  reflect  its  lustre  on  all  his  after  life. 
From  his  very  childhood  Sir  Archy  had  instilled  into  him 
this  thirst  for  distinction,  wisely  substituting  such  an  ambi- 
tion for  any  other  less  ennobling.  He  had  taught  him  to 
believe  that  there  would  be  more  true  honor  in  the  laurels 
there  won  than  in  all  the  efforts,  however  successful,  to  bring 
back  the  lost  glories  of  their  once  proud  house.  And  now 
he  was  on  the  very  threshold  of  that  career  his  heart  was 
centred  in.  No  wonder  is  it,  then,  if  his  spirits  were  high 
and  his  pulse  throbbing.  Sir  Archy's  eyes  seldom  wan- 
dered from  him.  He  seemed  as  if  reading  the  accomplish- 
ment of  all  his  long  teaching,  and  as  he  watched  the 
flashing  looks  and  the  excited  gestures  of  the  boy,  appeared 
as  though  calculating  how  far  such  a  temperament  might 
minister  to  or  mar  his  future  fortune. 


266  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

The  O'Douoghue  was  more  thoughtful  than  usual.  The 
idea  of  approaching  solitude,  so  doubly  sad  to  those 
advanced  in  life,  depressed  him.  His  evenings  of  late  had 
been  passed  in  a  happy  enjoyment  he  had  not  known  for 
years  before.  Separation  to  the  young  is  but  the  rupture 
of  the  ties  of  daily  intercourse;  to  the  old  it  has  all  the 
•  solemn  meaning  of  a  warning,  and  tells  of  the  approach  of 
the  last  dreadful  parting,  when  adieus  are  said  forever. 
He  could  not  help  those  gloomy  forebodings,  and  he  was 
silent  and  depressed. 

Kate's  attention  wandered  from  the  theme  of  Herbert's 
anticipated  pleasures  to  think  again  of  him,  for  whom  none 
seemed  now  interested.  She  had  listened  long  and  anxiously 
for  some  sound  to  mark  his  coming,  but  all  was  still  with- 
out, and  on  the  road  for  miles  the  moonlight  showed  no 
object  moving;  and  at  last  a  deep  revery  succeeded  to  this 
state  of  anxiety,  and  she  sat  lost  to  all  around  her.  Mean- 
while, Sir  Archy,  in  a  low,  impressive  voice,  was  warning 
Herbert  of  the  dangers  of  involving  himself  in  any  way  in 
the  conflicts  of  party  politics  then  so  high  in  Dublin. 

He  cautioned  him  to  reject  those  extreme  opinions  so 
fascinating  to  young  minds,  and  which  either  give  an  un- 
warrantable bias  to  the  judgment  through  life,  or  which, 
when  their  fallacy  is  detected,  lead  to  a  reaction  as  violent 
and  notions  as  false.  "Win  character  and  reputation  first, 
Herbert;  gain  the  position  from  which  your  opinions  will 
come  with  influence,  and  then,  my  boy,  with  judgment  not 
rashly  formed,  and  a  mind  trained  to  examine  great  ques- 
tions, then  you  may  fearlessly  enter  the  lists,  free  to  choose 
your  place  and  party.  You  cannot  be  a  patriot  this  way, 
in  the  newspaper  sense  of  the  term.  It  is  possible,  too, 
our  dear  Kate  may  deem  your  ambition  a  poor  one  —  " 

''Kate,  did  you  say?  —  Kate,  uncle?"  said  she,  raising 
her  head  with  a  look  of  abstraction. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  was  speaking  o'  some  of  the  dangers 
that  beset  the  first  steps  in  political  opinion,  and  telling 
Herbert  that  peril  does  not  always  bring  honor." 

"True,  sir— true;  but  Mark  —  "  She  stopped,  and  the 
blush  that  covered  her  face  suffused  her  neck  and  shoulders. 
It   was    not   till    her    lips  pronounced    the   name   that  she 


A  LAST  EVENING  AT  HOME.  267 

detected  how  inadvertently  she  had  revealed  the  secret  of 
her  own  musings. 

"Mark,  my  sweet  Kate,  is,  I  trust,  in  no  need  of  my 
warnings.  He  lives  apart  from  the  struggle;  and,  were  it 
otherwise,  he  is  older,  and  more  able  to  form  his  opinions 
than  Herbert  here." 

These  words  were  spoken  calmly,  and  with  a  studious 
desire  to  avoid  increasing  Kate's  confusion. 

"What  about  Mark?"  cried  the  O'Donoghue,  suddenly 
aroused  by  the  mention  of  the  name.  ''It's  very  strange 
he  should  not  be  here  to  say  'good-bye'  to  Kate.  Did  any 
one  tell  him  of  the  time  fixed  for  your  departure  ? " 

'*I  told  him  of  it,  and  he  has  promised  to  be  here,"  said 
Herbert.  "He  was  going  to  Beerhaven  for  a  day  or  two 
for  the  shooting,  but,  droll  enough,  he  has  left  his  gun 
behind  him." 

"The  boy's  not  himself  at  all,  latterly,"  muttered  the 
old  man.  "Lanty  brought  up  two  horses  here  the  other 
day,  and  he  would  not  even  go  to  the  door  to  look  at  them. 
I  don't  know  what  he  's  thinking  of." 

Kate  never  spoke,  and  tried  with  a  great  effort  to  main 
tain  a  look  of    calm  unconcern;    when,  with  that    strange 
instinct  so  indescribable  and  so  inexplicable,  she  felt  Sir 
Archy's   eyes  fixed   upon   her,   her   cheek    became   deadly 
pale. 

"There  —  there  he  comes,  and  at  a  slapping  pace,  too!  " 
cried  Herbert;  and  as  he  spoke  the  clattering  sound  of  a 
fast  gallop  was  heard  ascending  the  causeway,  and  the  next 
moment  the  bell  sent  forth  a  loud  summons. 

"I  knew  he  'd  keep  his  word,"  said  the  boy,  proudly,  as 
he  walked  to  meet  him.  The  door  opened,  and  Frederick 
Travers    appeared. 

So  unexpected  was  the  disappointment,  it  needed  all  Sir 
Archy's  practised  politeness  to  conceal  from  the  young 
Guardsman  the  discomfiture  of  the  rest.  Nor  did  he  entirely 
succeed,  for  Frederick  was  no  common  observer,  and  failed 
not  to  detect  in  every  countenance  around  that  his  was  not 
the  coming  looked  for. 

"I  owe  a  thousand  apologies  for  the  hour  of  my  visit, 
not  to  speak  of  its  abruptness,"  said  he,  graciously;  "but 


268  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

we  only  learned  accidentally  to-day  that  Herbert  was  going 
up  to  Dublin,  and  my  father  sent  me  to  request  ne  would 
join  our  party." 

"He  is  about  to  enter  college,"  said  Sir  Archy,  half 
fearing  to  divert  the  youth's  mind  from  the  great  object  of 
his  journey. 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Fred,  gayly.  "We'll  talk  Virgil  and 
Homer  on  the  road." 

"I  'm  afraid  such  pleasant  companionship  may  put  Greece 
and  Kome  in  the  background,"  said  Sir  Archy,  dryly. 

"I  '11  answer  for  it,  he  '11  be  nothing  the  worse  for  the 
brief  respite  from  study.  Besides,  you  'd  not  refuse  me 
his  company,  when  I  tell  you  that  otherwise  I  must  travel 
alone,  my  father  in  his  wisdom  having  decided  to  despatch 
me  half  a  day  in  advance  to  make  preparations  for  his 
arrival.     Is  that  quite  fair.   Miss  O'Donoghue?" 

"1  protest  I  think  not,  as  regards  us.  As  for  you," 
added  she,  archly,  "I  should  say  so  accomplished  a  traveller 
always  finds  sufficient  to  amuse  him  on  the  least  interesting 
journey.  I  remember  a  little  theory  of  yours  on  that  sub- 
ject ;  you  mentioned  it  the  first  time  I  had  the  pleasure  to 
meet  you." 

The  allusion  was  with  reference  to  the  manner  in  which 
Travers  made  her  acquaintance  in  the  Bristol  packet,  and 
the  cool  assurance  of  which  she,  with  most  womanl}^  perti- 
nacity, had  not  yet  forgiven.  Travers,  who  had  often  felt 
ashamed  of  the  circumstance,  and  had  hoped  it  long  since 
forgotten,  looked  the  very  picture  of  confusion. 

"I  perceive  Sir  Archibald  has  not  taught  you  to  respect 
his  native  proverb.  Miss  O'Donoghue,  and  let  'bygones  be 
bygones.'  " 

"I  hae  taught  her  nothing  Scotch,  sir,"  replied  Sir 
Archy,  smiling,  "but  to  love  a  thistle,  and  that  e'en 
because  it  has  a  sting." 

"Not  for  those  that  know  how  to  take  it,  uncle,"  said 
she,  archly,  and  with  a  fond  expression  that  lit  up  the  old 
man's  face  in  smiles. 

The  Guardsman  was  less  at  his  ease  than  usual;  and, 
having  arranged  the  matter  of  his  visit  satisfactorily,  arose 
to  take  his  leave. 


"     A  LAST  EVENING  AT  HOME.  269 

*'Then  you  '11  be  ready  for  me  at  eight,  Herbert.  My 
father  is  a  martinet  in  punctuality,  and  the  phaeton  will 
not  be  a  second  behind  time;  remember  that,  Miss  O'Dono- 
ghue,  for  he  makes  no  exception,  even  for  ladies." 

He  moved  towards  the  door;  then,  turning  suddenly, 
said,  — 

"By  the  by,  have  you  heard  anything  of  a  movement  in 
the  country  here  about  us?  The  Government  have  appar- 
ently got  some  information  on  the  subject,  but  I  suspect 
without  any  foundation  whatever." 

"To  what  extent  does  this  information  go?"  said  Sir 
Archy,  cautiously. 

"That  I  can't  tell  you.  All  I  know  is,  that  my  father 
has  just  received  a  letter  from  the  Castle,  stating  that  we 
are  living  in  the  very  midst  of  an  organized  rebellion,  only 
waiting  the  signal  for  open  revolt." 

"That  same  rebellion  has  been  going  on,  to  my  knowl- 
edge, something  more  than  forty  years,"  said  the  O'Dono- 
ghue,  laughing;  "and  I  never  knew  of  a  lord-lieutenant  or 
chief  secretary  who  did  n't  discover  the  plot,  and  save  the 
kingdom;  always  leaving  a  nest-egg  of  treason  for  his 
successor  to  make  a  character  by." 

"I  'm  no  so  sure  it  will  no  come  to  a  hatching  yet,"  said 
Sir  Archy,   with  a  dry  shake  of  the  head. 

"If  it  is  to  come,  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  it  might  while 
I  have  a  chance  of  being  a  spectator,"  said  Travers. 
Then,  suddenly  remembering  that  the  levity  of  the  remark 
might  not  please  the  others,  he  muttered  a  few  words  about 
a  hope  of  better  prospects,  and  withdrew. 

During  this  brief  colloquy,  Kate  listened  with  breathless 
interest  to  learn  some  fact,  or  even  some  well-grounded  sus- 
picion, which  might  serve  to  put  Mark  on  his  guard;  but 
nothing  could  be  more  vague  and  indecisive  than  Travers's 
information,  and  it  was  evident  that  he  had  not  concealed 
anything  he  knew.  Was  he  in  a  position  to  learn  more? 
was  the  next  question  to  herself;  might  he  not  be  able  to 
ascertain  where  the  suspicion  of  Government  rested,  and 
on  whom?  Her  decisions  were  seldom  but  the  work  of  a 
second,  and,  as  soon  as  this  thought  struck  her,  she  deter- 
mined to  act  upon  it.     Slipping  noiselessly  from  the  room, 


270  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

she  hastily  threw  a  shawl  around  her,  and  hurried  from  the 
house  by  a  small  postern  door  which,  leading  down  to  the 
high  road,  was  considerably  shorter  than  the  causeway  by 
which  Travers  must  pass. 

It  was  no  time  for  the  indulgence  of  bashfulness,  and, 
indeed,  her  thoughts  were  far  too  highly  excited  by  an- 
other's destiny  to  leave  any  room  to  think  of  herself;  and, 
short  as  the  path  was,  it  sufficed  to  let  her  arrange  her  plan 
of  procedure,  even  to  the  very  words  she  should  employ. 

"I  must  not  tell  him  it  is  for  Mark,"  said  she;  "he  must 
think  it  is  a  general  desire  to  save  any  rash  or  misguided 
enthusiast  from  ruin.  But  here  he  comes."  And  at  the 
same  instant  the  figure  of  a  man  was  seen  approaching,  lead- 
ing his  horse  by  the  bridle.  The  dark  shadow  of  the  castle 
fell  across  the  road  at  the  spot,  and  served  to  make  the 
form  dim  and  indistinct.  Kate  waited  not  for  his  coming 
nearer,  but,  advancing  hastily  towards  him,  cried  out,  — ; 

"Captain  Travers,  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  you, — one 
which  my  coming  thus  to  seek  — " 

"Say  no  more,  Kate,  lest  I  hear  what  was  never  intended 
for  my  ears,"  said  a  low,  deep  voice. 

"Mark  —  cousin  Mark,  is  this  you?"  cried  she,  with 
mingled  pleasure  and  shame. 

"Yes,"  replied  he,  in  a  tone  of  still  deeper  gravity;  "I 
grieve  to  disappoint  you, — it  is  me." 

"Oh,  Mark,  mistake  me  not,  — do  not  TVTong  me,"  said 
she,  laying  her  hand  affectionately  on  his  arm.  "I  have 
longed  so  much  to  see  you,  —  to  speak  to  you,  ere  we  went 
away." 

"To  see  me  —  to  speak  to  ??ie/"  said  he,  stepping  back, 
and  letting  the  moonlight  fall  full  upon  his  features,  now 
pale  as  death.  "It  was  not  me  you  expected  to  meet 
here." 

"No,  Mark,  but  it  was  for  j^ou  I  came.  I  wished  to 
serve  —  perhaps  to  save  you.  I  know  your  secret,  Mark, 
but  it  is  safe  with  me." 

"And  I  know  yours,  young  lady,"  retorted  he,  bitterly. 
"I  cannot  say  how  far  my  discretion  will  rival  your  own." 

As  he  spoke,  a  horseman  darted  rapidly  past,  and,  as  he 
emerged    from    the    shadow,    turned    round    in    his    saddle. 


A  LAST  EVENING  AT  HOME.  271 

stared  fixedly  at  the  figures  before  him,  and  then,  taking  off 
his  hat,   said,  — 

' '  Good-night,  Miss  O '  Donoghue. " 

When  Kate  recovered  the  shock  of  this  surprise,  she 
found  herself  alone,  —  Mark  had  disappeared ;  and  she  now 
returned  slowly  to  the  castle,  her  heart  torn  with  opposing 
emotions,  among  which  wounded  pride  was  not  the  least 
poignant. 


CHAPTER  XXVn. 

A    SUPPER    PARTY. 

As  we  are  about  to  withdraw  our  reader  for  a  brief  period 
from  the  sceues  wherein  he  has  so  kindly  lingered  with  us 
hitherto,  we  may  be  permitted  to  throw  on  them  a  last  look 
ere  we  part. 

On  the  evening  which  followed  that  recorded  in  our  last 
chapter,  the  two  old  men  were  seated  alone  in  the  tower  of 
Carrignacurra,  silent  and  thoughtful,  each  following  out  in 
his  mind  the  fortunes  of  him  for  whom  his  interest  was 
deepest,  and  each  sad  with  the  sorrow  that  never  spares 
those  who  are,  or  who  deem  themselves,  forsaken. 

Unaided  memory  can  conjm-e  up  no  such  memorials  of 
past  pleasure  as  come  from  the  objects  and  scenes  asso- 
ciated with  days  and  nights  of  happiness.  They  appeal 
with  a  force  mere  speculation  never  suggests,  and  bring 
back  all  the  lesser  but  more  touching  incidents  of  hourly 
intercourse,  so  little  at  the  time  —  so  much  when  remem- 
bered years  afterwards. 

The  brightest  moments  of  life  are  the  most  difficult  to 
recall;  they  are  like  the  brilliant  lights  upon  a  landscape, 
which  we  may  revisit  a  hundred  times,  yet  never  behold 
under  the  same  favorable  circumstances,  nor  gaze  on  with 
the  same  enthusiasm  as  at  first.  It  was  thus  that  both  the 
O'Donoghue  and  Sir  Archy  now  remembered  her  whose 
presence  lightened  so  many  hours  of  solitude,  and  even 
grafted  hope  upon  the  tree  scathed  and  withered  by  evil 
fortune.  Several  efforts  to  start  a  topic  of  conversation 
were  made  by  each,  but  all  equally  fruitless,  and  both 
relapsed  into  a  moody  silence,  from  which  they  were  sud- 
denly aroused  by  a  violent  ringing  at  the  gate,  and  the 


A  SUPPER  PARTY.  273 

voices  of  many  persons  talking  together,  among  which 
Mark  O'Donoghue's  could  plainly  be  heard. 

''Yes,  but  I  insist  upon  it,"  cried  he;  "to  refuse  will 
offend  me." 

Some  words  were  then  spoken  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance, 
to  which  he  again  replied,  but  with  even  greater  energy,  — 

"What  care  I  for  that?  This  is  my  father's  house,  and 
who  shall  say  that  his  eldest  son  cannot  introduce  his 
friends  —  " 

A  violent  jerk  at  the  bell  drowned  the  remainder  of  the 
speech. 

"  We  are  about  to  hae  company,  I  perceive,"  said  Sir 
Archy,  looking  cautiously  about  to  secure  his  book  and  his 
spectacles  before  retreating  to  his  bedroom. 

"  Bedad,  you  guessed  it,"  said  Kerry,  who,  having  re- 
connoitred the  party  through  a  small  window  beside  the 
door,  had  now  prudently  adjourned  to  take  counsel  whether 
to  admit  them.  "There's  eight  or  nine  at  laste,  and  it 
isn't  fresh  and  fasting  either  they  are." 

"Why  don't  you  open  the  door?  —  do  you  want  your 
bones  broken  for  you?"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  harshly. 

"I'd  let  them  gang  the  gate  they  cam,"  said  Sir  Archy, 
sagely;  "if  I  may  hazard  a  guess  from  their  speech,  they 
are  no  in  a  fit  state  to  visit  any  respectable  house.  Hear 
till  that?" 

A  fearful  shout  now  was  heard  outside. 

"What's  the  rascal  staring  at?"  cried  the  O'Donoghue, 
with  clinched  teeth.     "  Open  the  door  this  instant." 

But  the  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  a  tremendous 
crash  resounded  through  the  whole  building,  and  then  a 
heavy  noise  like  the  fall  of  some  weighty  object. 

"'Tis  the  window  he's  bruk  in,  —  divil  a  lie,"  cried 
Kerry,  in  an  accent  of  unfeigned  terror ;  and,  without  wait- 
ing a  second,  he  rushed  from  the  room  to  seek  some  place  of 
concealment  from  Mark's  anger. 

The  clash  of  the  massive  chain  was  next  heard,  as  it 
banged  heavily  against  the  oak  door;  bolt  after  bolt  was 
quickly  shot,  and  Mark,  calling  out,  "Follow  me, — this 
way."  rudely  pushed  wide  the  door  and  entered  the  tower. 
A  mere  passing  glance  was  enough  to  show  that  his  ex- 

VOL.    I.  — 18 


274  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

citement  was  not  merely  the  fruit  of  passion ;  his  eyes 
wild  and  bloodshot,  his  flushed  cheek,  his  swollen  and  heavy 
lips,  all  betrayed  that  he  had  drunk  deeply.  His  cravat 
was  loose  and  his  vest  open,  while  the  fingers  of  his  right 
hand  were  one  mass  of  blood,  from  the  violence  with  which 
he  had  forced  his  entrance. 

"  Come  along,  Talbot  —  Holt,  this  way —  come  in,  boys," 
said  he,  calling  to  those  behind.  "I  told  them  we  should 
find  you  here,  though  they  insisted  it  was  too  late." 

"  Never  too  late  to  welcome  a  guest,  Mark,  but  always 
too  early  to  part  with  one,"  cried  the  O'Donoghue,  who, 
although  shocked  at  the  condition  he  beheld  his  son  in, 
resolved  to  betray  for  the  time  no  apparent  consciousness 
of  it. 

"This  is  my  friend  Harry  Talbot,  father, —  Sir  Archy 
M'Nab,  my  uncle.  Holt,  where  are  you?  I'll  be  hanged 
if  they  're  not  slipped  away ;  "  and  with  a  fearful  impreca- 
tion on  their  treachery,  he  rushed  from  the  room,  leaving 
Talbot  to  make  his  own  advances.  The  rapid  tramp  of 
feet,  and  the  loud  laughter  of  the  fugitives  without,  did 
not  for  a  second  or  two  permit  of  his  few  words  being 
heard ;  but  his  manner  and  air  had  so  far  assured  Sir  Archy 
that  he  stopped  short  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  and 
saluted  him  courteously. 

"It  would  be  very  ungracious  in  me,"  said  Talbot,  smil- 
ing, "  to  disparage  my  friend  Mark's  hospitable  intentions, 
but  in  truth  I  feel  so  much  ashamed  for  the  manner  of  our 
entry  here  this  evening  that  I  cannot  express  the  pleasure 
such  a  visit  would  have  given  me  under  more  becoming 
circumstances." 

Sir  Archibald's  surprise  at  the  tone  in  which  these  words 
were  delivered  did  not  prevent  him  making  a  suitable  reply, 
while,  relinquishing  his  intention  of  retiring,  he  extinguished 
his  candle,  and  took  a  seat  opposite  Talbot. 

Having  in  an  early  chapter  of  our  tale  presented  this 
gentleman  to  our  reader's  notice,  we  have  scarcely  any- 
thing to  add  on  the  present  occasion.  His  dress,  indeed, 
was  somewhat  different:  then,  he  wore  a  riding  costume, 
—  now,  he  was  habited  in  a  frock  richly  braided,  and  orna- 
mented with  a  deep  border  of  black  fur ;   a  cap  of  the  same 


A  SUPPER  PARTY.  275 

skin,  from  which  hung  a  band  of  deep  gold  lace,  he  also 
carried  in  his  hand  —  a  costume  which  at  the  time  would 
have  been  called  foreign. 

While  Sir  Archy  was  interchanging  courtesies  with  the 
newly  arrived  guest,  the  O'Donoghue,  by  dint  of  reiterated 
pulling  at  the  bell,  had  succeeded  in  inducing  Kerry  O'Leary 
to  quit  his  sanctuary,  and  venture  to  the  door  of  his  apart- 
ment, which  he  did  with  a  caution  only  to  be  acquired  by 
long  practice. 

"  Is  he  here,  sir?  "  whispered  he,  as  his  eyes  took  a  rapid 
but  searching  survey  of  the  apartment.  "Blessed  Virgin, 
but  he  's  in  a  dreadful  temper  to-night." 

"  Bring  some  supper  here,  directly,"  cried  O'Donoghue, 
striking  the  ground  angrily  with  his  heavy  cane ;  "  if  I  have 
to  tell  you  again,  I  hope  he  '11  break  every  bone  in  your 
skin." 

"I  request  you  will  not  order  any  refreshment  for  me, 
sir,"  said  Talbot,  bowing :  "we  partook  of  a  very  excellent 
supper  at  a  little  cabin  in  the  glen,  where,  among  other 
advantages,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  making  your  son's 
acquaintance." 

"  Ah,  indeed,  at  Mary's,"  said  the  old  man.  "  There 
are  worse  places  than  that  little  '  shebeen ' :  but  you  must 
permit  me  to  offer  you  a  glass  of  claret,  which  never  tastes 
the  worse  in  company  with  a  grouse-pie." 

"You  must  hae  found  the  travelling  somewhat  rude  in 
these  parts,"  said  M'Nab,  who  thus  endeavored  to  draw 
from  the  stranger  some  hint  either  as  to  the  object  or  the 
road  of  his  journey. 

"  We  were  not  over  particular  on  that  score,"  said  Talbot, 
laughing.  "A  few  young  college  men,  seeking  some  days' 
amusement  in  the  wild  mountains  of  this  picturesque  dis- 
trict, could  well  afford  to  rough  it  for  the  enjoyment  of  the 
ramble." 

"You  should  visit  us  in  the  autumn,"  said  O'Donoghue, 
"when  our  heaths  and  arbutus  blossoms  are  in  beauty; 
then,  they  who  have  travelled  far,  tell  me  that  there  is 
nothing  to  be  seen  in  Switzerland  finer  than  this  valley. 
Draw  your  chair  over  here,  and  let  me  have  the  pleasure 
of  a  glass  of  wine  with  you." 


276 


THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 


The  party  had  scarcely  taken  their  places  at  the  table, 
when  Mark  re-entered  the  room,  heated  and  excited  with 
the  chase  of  the  fugitives. 

"They're  off,"  muttered  he,  angrily,  "down  the  glen, 
and  I  only  hope  they  may  lose  theii'  way  in  it,  and  spend 
the  night  upon  the  heather." 

As  he  spoke,  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  corner  of  the 
room,  where  Kerry,  in  a  state  of  the  most  abject  fear,  was 


endeavoring  to  extract  a  cork  from  a  bottle  by  means  of  a 
very  impracticable  screw. 

"Ah,  you  there!"  cried  he,  as  his  eyes  flashed  fire. 
"  Hold  the  bottle  up  —  hold  it  steady,  you  old  fool!  "  and 
with  a  savage  grin  he  drew  a  pistol  from  his  breast-pocket, 
and  levelled  it  at  the  mark. 

Kerry  was  on  his  knees,  one  hand  on  the  floor  and  in  the 
other  the  bottle,  which,  despite  all  his  efforts,  he  swayed 
backwards  and  forwards. 


A  SUPPER  PARTY.  277 

*' O  master,  darliu' !  —  O  Sir  Archy  dear! — O  Joseph 
and  Mary !  " 

"  I  've  drunk  too  much  wine  to  hit  it  flying,"  said  Mark, 
with  a  half-drunken  laugh,  "  and  the  fool  won't  be  steady. 
There !  "  and  as  he  spoke,  the  crash  of  the  report  resounded 
through  the  room,  and  the  neck  of  the  bottle  was  snapped 
off  about  half  an  inch  below  the  cork. 

"Neatly  done,  Mark,  —  not  a  doubt  of  it,"  said  the 
O'Douoghue,  as  he  took  the  bottle  from  Kerry's  hand,  who, 
with  a  pace  a  kangaroo  might  have  envied,  approached  the 
table,  actually  dreading  to  stand  up  straight  in  Mark's 
presence. 

"At  the  risk  of  being  thought  an  epicure,"  said  M'Nab, 
"  I  maun  say  I  'd  like  my  wine  handled  more  tenderly." 

"  It  was  cleverly  done,  though,"  said  Talbot,  helping 
himself  to  a  bumper  from  the  broken  flask.  "  I  remember 
a  trick  we  used  to  have  at  St.  Cyr,  which  was,  to  place  a 
bullet  on  a  cork,  and  then,  at  fifteen  paces,  cut  away  the 
cork,  and  drop  the  bullet  into  the  bottle." 

"  No  man  ever  did  that  twice,"  cried  Mark,  rudely. 

"I'll  wager  a  hundred  guineas  I  do  it  twice,  within  five 
shots,"  said  Talbot,  with  the  most  perfect  coolness. 

"  Done,  for  a  hundred,  — I  say  done,"  said  Mark,  slap- 
ping him  familiarly  on  the  shoulder. 

"I'll  not  win  your  money  on  such  unfair  terms,"  said 
Talbot,  laughing;  "and  if  I  can  refrain  from  taking  too 
much  of  this  excellent  Bordeaux,  I  '11  do  the  trick  to-morrow 
without  a  wager." 

Mark,  like  most  persons  who  place  great  store  by  feats 
of  skill  and  address,  felt  vexed  at  the  superiority  claimed 
by  another,  answered  carelessly,  "  that,  after  all,  perhaps 
the  thing  was  easier  than  it  seemed." 

"Very  true,"  chimed  in  Talbot,  mildly;  "what  we  have 
neither  done  ourselves  nor  seen  done  by  another,  has  always 
the  appearance  of  difficulty.  What  is  called  wisdom  is  little 
other  than  the  power  of  calculating  success  or  failure  on 
grounds  of  mere  probability." 

"  Your  definition  has  the  advantage  of  being  sufficient 
for  the  occasion,"  said  Sir  Archy,  smiling.  "  I  am  happy 
to  find  our  glen  has  not  disappointed  you ;    but  if  you  have 


278  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

not  seen  the  Lake  and  the  Bay  of  Glengariff,  I  anticipate 
even  a  higher  praise  from  you." 

"We  spent  the  day  on  the  water,"  replied  Talbot;  "  and 
if  it  were  not  a  heresy,  I  should  affirm  that  these  bold  moun- 
tains are  grander  and  more  sublime  in  the  desolation  of 
winter  than  even  when  clothed  in  the  purple  and  gold  of 
summer.  There  was  a  fine  sea,  too,  rolling  into  that  great 
bay  bounding  upon  the  rocks,  and  swelling  proudly  against 
the  tall  cliffs,  which,  to  my  eye,  is  more  pleasurable  than 
the  glassy  surface  of  calm  water.  Motion  is  the  life  of 
inanimate  objects,  and  life  has  always  its  own  powers  of 
excitement." 

While  they  conversed  thus,  M'Nab,  endeavoring,  by 
adroit  allusions  to  the  place,  to  divine  the  real  reason  of 
the  visit,  and  Talbot,  by  encomiums  on  the  scenery,  or,  occa- 
sionally, by  the  expression  of  some  abstract  proposition, 
seeking  to  avoid  any  direct  interrogatory,  Mark,  who  had 
grown  weary  of  a  dialogue,  which,  even  in  his  clearer  mo- 
ments, would  not  have  interested  him,  filling  and  refilling  a 
large  glass  unceasingly,  while  the  O'Donoghue  merely  paid 
that  degree  of  attention  which  politeness  demanded. 

It  was  thus  that,  while  Sir  Archy  believed  he  was  push- 
ing Talbot  closely  on  the  objects  of  his  coming,  Talbot  was, 
in  reality,  obtaining  from  him  much  information  about  the 
country  generally,  the  habits  of  the  people,  and  their  modes 
of  life,  which  he  effected  in  the  easy,  unconstrained  manner 
of  one  perfectly  calm  and  unconcerned.  "The  life  of  a 
fisherman,"  said  he,  in  reply  to  a  remark  of  Sir  Archy's,  — 
"  the  life  of  a  fisherman  is,  however,  a  poor  one;  for  though 
his  gains  are  great  at  certain  seasons,  there  are  days  —  ay, 
whole  months  —  he  cannot  venture  out  to  sea.  Now,  it 
strikes  me  that  in  that  very  Bay  of  Bautry  the  swell  must 
be  terrific  when  the  wind  blows  from  the  west  or  the  nor'- 
west." 

"You  are  right,  — quite  right,"  answered  M'Nab,  who  at 
once  entered  freely  into  a  discussion  of  the  condition  of  the 
bay,  under  the  various  changing  circumstances  of  wind  and 
tide.  "  Many  of  our  poor  fellows  have  been  lost  within  my 
own  memory,  and,  indeed,  save  when  we  have  an  easterly 
wind  —  " 


A  SUPPER  PARTY.  279 

*'An  easterly  wind?"  re-echoed  Mark,  lifting  his  head 
suddenly  from  between  his  hands,  and  staring  in  half- 
drunken  astonishment  around  him.  "  Is  that  the  toast,  — 
did  you  say  that?  " 

'*  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Sir  Archy,  smiling.  "  There 
are  few  sentiments  deserve  a  bumper  better  by  any  who  live 
in  these  parts.     Won't  you  join  us,  Mr.  Talbot?  " 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  Talbot,  laughing;  but  with  all 
his  efforts  to  seem'  at  ease,  a  quick  observer  might  have 
remarked  the  look  of  warning  he  threw  towards  the  young 
O'Douoghue. 

"Here,  then,"  cried  Mark,  rising,  while  the  wine  trickled 
over  his  hand  from  a  brimming  goblet,  "  I  '11  give  it,  — are 
you  ready  ?  " 

"  All  ready,  Mark,"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  laughing  heart- 
ily at  the  serious  gravity  of  Mark's  countenance. 

"Confound  it,"  cried  the  youth,  passionately,  "I  forget 
the  jingle." 

"Never  mind  —  never  mind,"  interposed  Talbot,  slyly; 
"we'll  pledge  it  with  as  good  a  mind." 

"That's  —  that's  it,"  shouted  Mai'k,  as  the  last  word 
clinked  upon  his  memory.  "I  have  it  now,"  and  his  eyes 
sparkled,  and  his  brows  were  met,  as  he  called  out,  — 

**  A  stout  heart  and  mind, 
And  an  easterly  wind, 
And  the  Devil  behind 
The  Saxon." 

Sir  Archy  laid  down  his  glass  untasted,  while  Talbot,  burst- 
ing forth  into  a  well-acted  laugh,  cried  out,  "  You  must  ex- 
cuse me  from  repeating  your  amiable  sentiment,  which,  for 
aught  I  can  guess,  may  be  a  sarcasm  on  my  own  country." 

"I'd  like  to  hear  the  same  toast  explained,"  said  Sir 
Archy,  cautiously,  while  his  looks  wandered  alternately 
from  Mark  to  Talbot. 

"So  you  shall,  then,"  replied  Mark,  sternly,  "and  this 
very  moment  too." 

"  Come,  that's  fair,"  chimed  in  Talbot,  while  he  fixed  his 
eyes  on  the  youth  with  such  a  steady  gaze  as  seemed  actually 
to  have  pierced  the  dull  vapor  of  his  clouded  intellect,  and 


280  THE    OTONOGHUE. 

flashed  light  upon  his  addled  brain.  '-Let  us  hear  your 
explanation." 

Mark,  for  a  second  or  two,  looked  like  one  suddenly 
awakened  from  a  deep  sleep,  and  trying  to  collect  his 
wandering  faculties,  while,  as  if  instinctively  seeking  the 
clew  to  his  bewilderment  from  Talbot,  he  never  turned  his 
eyes  from  him.  As  he  sat  thus  he  looked  the  very  ideal  of 
half-drunken  stupidity. 

"I'm  afraid  we  have  no  right  to  ask  the  explanation," 
whispered  Talbot  into  M'Nab's  ear.  "  We  ought  to  be 
satisfied  if  he  give  us  the  rhyme,  even  though  he  forget  the 
reason." 

"I'm  thinking  you're  right,  sir,"  replied  M'Nab ;  "but 
I  suspect  we  hae  na  the  poet  before  us  ony  mair  than  the 
interpreter." 

Mark's  faculties,  in  slow  pursuit  of  Talbot's  meaning, 
had  just  at  this  instant  overtaken  their  object,  and  he 
burst  forth  into  a  boisterous  fit  of  laughter,  which,  what- 
ever sentiment  it  might  have  excited  in  the  others,  relieved 
Talbot,  at  least,  from  all  his  former  embarrassment:  he 
saw  that  Mark  had,  though  late,  recognized  his  warning, 
and  was  at  once  relieved  from  any  uneasiness  on  the  score 
of  his  imprudence. 

Sir  Archy  was,  however,  very  far  from  feeling  satisfied. 
What  he  had  heard,  brief  and  broken  as  it  was,  but  served 
to  excite  his  suspicions,  and  make  him  regard  this  guest  as 
at  least  a  very  doubtful  character.  Too  shrewd  a  diplo- 
matist to  push  his  inquiries  any  farther,  he  adroitly  turned 
the  conversation  upon  matters  of  comparative  indifference, 
reserving  to  himself  the  part  of  acutely  watching  Talbot's 
manner,  and  narrowly  scrutinizing  the  extent  of  his  acquain- 
tance with  Mark  O'Donoghue.  In  whatever  school  Talbot 
had  been  taught,  his  skill  was  more  than  a  match  for  Sir 
Archy's.  Not  only  did  he  at  once  detect  the  meaning  of 
the  old  man's  policy,  but  he  contrived  to  make  it  subservient 
to  his  own  views  by  the  opportunity  it  afforded  him  of 
estimating  the  influence  he  was  capable  of  exerting  over  his 
nephew,  and  how  far,  if  need  were,  Mark  should  become 
dependent  on  his  will,  rather  than  on  that  of  any  member  of 
his  own  family.     The  frankness  of  his  manner,  the  seeming 


A   SUPPER  PARTY.  281 

openness  of  his  nature,  rendered  his  task  a  matter  of 
apparent  amusement ;  and  none  at  the  table  looked  in  every 
respect  more  at  ease  than  Harry  Talbot. 

While  Sir  Archy  was  thus  endeavoring,  with  such  skill 
as  he  possessed,  to  worm  out  the  secret  reason  —  and  such, 
he  well  knew,  there  must  be  —  of  Talbot's  visit  to  that 
unfrequented  region,  Kerry  O'Leary  was  speculating,  with 
all  his  imaginative  ability,  how  best  to  account  for  that 
event.  The  occasion  was  one  of  more  than  ordinary  diffi- 
culty. Talbot  looked  neither  like  a  bailiff  nor  a  sheriff's 
officer;  neither  had  he  outward  signs  of  a  lawyer  or  an 
attorney.  Kerry  was  conversant  with  the  traits  of  each  of 
these.  If  he  were  a  suitor  for  Miss  Kate,  his  last  guess,  he 
was  a  day  too  late. 

"But  sure  he  couldn't  be  that;  he'd  never  come  with  a 
throop  of  noisy  vagabonds,  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  av  he 
was  after  the  young  lady.  Well,  well,  he  bates  me  out,  — 
sorra  lie  in  it,"  said  he,  drawing  a  heavy  sigh,  and  crossing 
his  hands  before  him  in  sad  resignation. 

"On  my  conscience,  then,  it  was  a  charit}^  to  cut  your 
hair  for  you,  anyhow ! "  said  Mrs.  Branaghan,  who  had 
been  calmly  meditating  on  the  pistol-shot,  which,  in  grazing 
Kerry's  hair,  had  somewhat  damaged  his  locks. 

"  See,  then,  by  the  holy  mass!  av  he  went  half  an  inch 
lower,  it 's  my  life  he  'd  be  after  taking ;  and  av  he  was  the 
fifty  O'Donoghues,  I'd  have  my  vingince.  Bad  cess  to  me, 
but  they  think  the  likes  of  me  is  n't  fit  to  live  at  all." 

"  They  do,"  responded  Mrs.  Branaghan,  with  a  mild  puff 
of  smoke  from  the  corner  of  her  mouth  —  "  they  do  ;  and  if 
they  never  did  worse  than  extarminate  such  varmin,  their 
sowls  would  have  an  easier  time  of  it." 

Kerry's  brow  lowered,  and  his  lips  muttered,  but  no 
distinct  reply  was  audible. 

"  Sorra  bit  of  good  I  see  in  ye  at  all,"  said  she,  with 
inexorable  severity.  "  I  mind  the  time  ye  used  to  tell  a 
body  what  was  doing  above  stairs;  and  though  half  what 
ye  said  was  lies,  it  was  better  than  nothing :  but  now  yer 
as  stupid  and  lazy  as  the  ould  beast  there  fornint  the  fire,  — ■ 
not  a  word  out  of  your  head  from  morning  to  night.  Ayeh, 
is  it  your  hearin'  's  failin'  ye  ?  " 


282  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"I  wish  to  the  Blessed  Mother  it  was,"  muttered  he, 
fervently,  to  himself. 

"There's  a  man  now  eatin'  and  drinkin'  in  the  parlor, 
and  the  sorra  more  ye  know  about  him  than  if  he  was  the 
Queen  of  Sheba." 

"Don't  I,  thin, — maybe  not,"  said  Kerry,  tauntingly, 
and  with  a  look  of  such  well-affected  secrecy  that  Mrs. 
Branaghan  was  completely  deceived  by  it. 

"  What  is  he,  then?  —  spake  it  out  free  this  minit,"  said 
she.  "  Bad  cess  to  you,  do  you  want  to  trate  me  like  an 
informer  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Branaghan;  it's  not  that  same  I'd 
even  to  you  —  sure  I  knew  3'our  people  —  father  and  mother's 
side  —  two  generations  back.  Miles  Buoy  —  Yallow  Miles, 
as  they  called  him  —  was  the  finest  judge  of  a  horse  in 
Kerry^,  —  I  wonder,  now,  he  did  n't  make  a  power  of  money." 

"  And  so  he  did,  and  spint  it  after.  'T  was  blackguards, 
with  ould  gaiters,  and  one  spur  on  them,  that  ate  up  every 
shilling  he  saved." 

"Well,  well!  think  of  that  now,"  said  Kerry,  with  the 
sententiousness  of  one  revolving  some  strange  and  curious 
social  anomaly  ;   "  and  that 's  the  way  it  wint?  " 

"  Was  n't  it  a  likely  way  enough?  "  said  Mrs.  Branaghan, 
with  flashing  eyes;  "  feedin'  a  set  of  spalpeens  that  thought 
of  nothing  but  chating  the  world !  The  sight  of  a  pair  of 
top-boots  gives  me  the  heartburn  to  this  day." 

"  Mine  warms  to  them,  too,"  said  Kerry,  timidly,  who 
ventured  on  his  humble  pun  with  deep  humility. 

A  contemptuous  scowl  was  Mrs.  Brauaghan's  reply,  and 
Kerry  resumed,  — 

"Them's  the  changes  of  the  world;  rich  yesterday, — 
poor  to-day.  Don't  I  know  what  poverty  is  well  myself? 
Augh !  sure  enough  they  wor  the  fine  times  when  I  rode  out 
on  a  beast  worth  eighty  guineas  in  goold,  wid  clothes  on  my 
back  a  lord  might  envy ;  and  now,  look  at  me !  " 

Mrs.  Branaghan,  to  whom  the  rhetorical  figure  seemed 
a  direct  appeal,  did  look ;  and  assuredly  the  inspection  con- 
veyed nothing  flattering,  for  she  turned  away  abruptl}^  and 
smoked  her  pipe  with  an  air  of  profound  disdain. 

"  Faix,  ye  may  say  so,"  continued  Kerry,  converting  her 


A  SUPPER  PARTY.  283 

glance  into  words.  ''  'T  is  a  poor  object  I  am  this  blessed 
day.  The  coat  on  my  back  is  more  like  a  transparency,  and 
my  small-clothes,  saving  your  favor,  is  as  hard  to  get  into 
as  a  fishing-net ;  and  if  I  was  training  for  the  coorse  I 
couldn't  be  on  shorter  allowance." 

*' What's  that  yer  saying  about  yer  vittals?"  said  the 
cook,  turning  fiercely  towards  him.  '*  There  's  not  your 
equal  for  an  appetite  from  this  to  Cork.  It 's  little  time  a 
Kerry  cow  would  keep  you  in  beef,  and  it 's  an  ill  skin  it 
goes  into.     Yer  a  disgrace  to  a  good  family." 

"Well,  I  am,  and  there's  no  denying  it!"  ejaculated 
Kerry,  with  a  sigh  that  sounded  far  more  like  despair  than 
resignation. 

''Is  it  to  hang  yourself  you  have  that  piece  of  a  rope 
there?  "  said  she,  pointing  to  the  end  of  a  stout  cord  that 
depended  from  Kerry's  pocket. 

"Maybe  it  might  come  to  that  same  yet,"  said  he;  and 
then  putting  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  drew  forth  a  great 
coil  of  rope,  to  the  end  of  which  a  leaden  weight  was  fas- 
tened. "There  now,"  resumed  he,  "yer  a  cute  woman  — 
can  ye  tell  me  what 's  the  meanin'  of  that  ?  " 

Mrs.  Branaghan  gave  one  look  at  the  object  in  question, 
and  then  turned  away,  as  though  the  inquiry  was  one  beneath 
her  dignity  to  investigate. 

"Some  would  call  it  a  clothes-line,  and  more  would  say 
it  was  for  fishing ;  but  sure  there  's  no  sign  of  hooks  on  it 
at  all ;  and  what 's  the  piece  of  lead  for  ?  —  that 's  what 
bothers  me  out  entirely." 

These  observations  were  so  many  devices  to  induce  Mrs. 
Branaghan  to  offer  her  own  speculations ;  but  they  failed 
utterly,  that  sage  personage  not  deigning  to  pay  the  least 
attention  either  to  Kerry  or  the  subject  of  his  remarks. 

"  Well,  I  '11  just  leave  it  where  I  found  it,"  said  he,  in  a 
half  soliloquy,  but  which  had  the  effect  of  at  least  arousing 
the  curiosity  of  his  companion. 

"  And  where  was  that?  "  asked  she. 

"  Outside  there,  before  the  hall  door,"  said  he,  carelessly, 
"  where  I  got  this  little  paper  book  too;  "  and  he  produced 
a  small  pocket  almanac  with  blank  pages  interleaved,  some 
of  which  had  short   pencil   memoranda.      I  '11  leave  them 


284  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

both  there,  for,  somehow,  I  don't  like  the  look  of  either  of 
them." 

"  Read  us  a  bit  of  it  first,  anyhow,"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan, 
in  a  more  conciliating  tone  than  she  had  yet  employed. 

"  'T  is  what  I  can't  do,  then,"  said  Kerry,  "  for  it 's  writ 
in  some  outlandish  tongue  that 's  past  me  altogether." 

"  And  3"ou  found  them  at  the  door,  ye  say?  " 

"  Out  there  fornint  the  tower.  'T  was  the  chaps  that  run 
away  from  Master  Mark  that  dropped  them.  Ye  'r  a  dhroll 
bit  of  a  rope  as  ever  I  seen,"  added  he,  as  he  poised  the  lead 
in  his  hand,  "  av  a  body  knew  only  what  to  make  of  ye." 
Then  turning  to  the  book,  he  pored  for  several  minutes  over 
a  page,  in  which  there  were  some  lines  written  with  a  pencil. 
"Be  my  conscience  I  have  it,"  said  he,  at  length;  "and 
faix  it  wasn't  bad  of  me  to  make  it  out.  What  do  you 
think,  now,  the  rope  is  for?" 

"  Sure  I  tould  you  afore  I  did  n't  know." 

"  Well,  then,  hear  it,  and  no  lie  in  it,  — 't  is  for  measurin* 
the  say." 

"  Measurin'  the  say  !  What  bother  you  're  talking  ;  is  n't 
the  say  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles  long?" 

"  And  who  says  it  is  n't?  —  but  for  measurin'  the  depth  of 
it,  that 's  what  it  is.  Listen  to  this  —  '  Bantry  Bay.  eleven 
fathoms  at  low  water  inside  of  Whiddy  Island ;  but  the 
shore  current  at  half  ebb  makes  landing  difficult  with  any 
wind  from  the  westward ; '  and  here  's  another  piece,  half 
rubbed  out,  about  flat-bottomed  boats  being  best  for  the 
surf." 

"'Tis  the  smugglers  again,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Branaghan, 
as  though  summing  up  her  opinion  on  the  evidence. 

"  Troth,  then,  I  don't  think  so;  they  never  found  it  hard 
to  land,  no  matter  how  it  blew.  I  'm  thinking  of  a  way  to 
find  it  out  at  last." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"I'll  just  go  up  to  the  parlor,  wid  an  innocent  face  on 
me,  and  I  '11  lay  the  rope  and  the  little  book  down  on  the 
table  before  the  strange  man  there,  and  I'll  just  say, 
'  There 's  the  things  your  honor  dropped  at  the  door  out- 
side ;  '  and  maybe  ould  Archy  won't  have  the  saycret  out  of 
him." 


A  SUPPER  PARTY.  286 

*'Do  that,  Kerry  avich,"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan,  who  at 
length  vouchsafed  a  hearty  approval  of  his  skill  in  devices, 
—  "do  that,  and  I '11  broil  a  bit  o'  meat  for  ye  agin  ye  come 
down." 

"  Wid  an  onion  on  it,  av  it 's  plazing  to  ye,  ma'am,"  said 
Kerry,  insinuatingly. 

"  Sure  I  know  how  you  like  it;  and  if  ye  have  the  whole 
of  the  saycret,  maybe  you  'd  get  a  dhrop  to  wash  it  down 
besides." 

"  And  wish  you  health  and  happy  days,  Mrs.  Branaghan," 
added  Kerry,  with  a  courteous  gallantry  he  always  reserved 
for  the  kitchen.  So  saying,  he  arose  from  his  chair,  and 
proceeded  to  arrange  his  dress  in  a  manner  becoming  the 
dignity  of  his  new  mission,  rehearsing  at  the  same  time  the 
mode  of  his  entry. 

"  '  'T  is  the  rope  and  the  little  book,  your  honor,'  I  '11  say, 
'  that  ye  dropped  outside  there,  and  sure  it  would  be  a  pity 
to  lose  it  afther  all  your  trouble  measuring  the  places.' 
That  will  be  enough  for  ould  Archy ;  let  him  get  a  sniff  of 
the  game  once,  and  begorra  he  '11  run  him  home  by  himself 
afterwards." 

With  this  sensible  reflection  Kerry  ascended  the  stairs 
in  high  good  humor  at  his  own  sagacity  and  the  excellent 
reward  which  awaited  it  on  his  return.  As  he  neared  the 
door,  the  voices  were  loud  and  boisterous ;  at  least,  Mark's 
was  such ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  Talbot  was  endeavoring  to 
moderate  the  violent  tone  in  which  he  spoke,  and  success- 
fully, too;  for  a  loud  burst  of  laughter  followed,  in  which 
Talbot  appeared  to  join  heartily. 

"Maybe  I'll  spoil  your  fun,"  said  Kerry,  maliciously,  to 
himself;  and  he  opened  the  door,  and  entered. 


CHAPTER  XXVni. 

THE    CAPITAL    AND    ITS    PLEASURES. 

Dublin,  at  the  time  we  speak  of,  possessed  social  attrac- 
tions of  a  high  order.  Rank,  beauty,  intellect,  and  wealth, 
contributed  their  several  influences ;  and  while  the  tone  of 
society  had  all  the  charms  of  a  politeness  now  bygone,  there 
was  an  admixture  of  native  kindliness  and  cordiality  as  dis- 
tinctive as  it  was  fascinating. 

Almost  every  Irishman  of  rank  travelled  in  those  days. 
It  was  regarded  as  the  last  finishing-touch  of  education,  and 
few  nations  possess  quicker  powers  of  imitation,  or  a  greater 
aptitude  in  adapting  foreign  habitudes  to  home  usages,  than 
the  Irish ;  for,  while  vanity  with  the  Frenchman  —  coldness 
with  the  Englishman  —  and  stolid  indifference  with  the  Ger- 
man, are  insuperable  barriers  against  this  acquirement,  the 
natural  gayety  of  Irish  character,  the  buoyancy,  but  still 
more  than  all,  perhaps,  the  inherent  desire  to  please,  sug- 
gest a  quality  which,  when  cultivated  and  improved,  becomes 
that  great  element  of  social  success  —  the  most  precious  of 
all  drawing-room  gifts  —  men  call  tact. 

It  would  be  a  most  unfair  criterion  of  the  tastes  and 
pleasures  of  that  day,  were  we  to  pronounce  from  our 
experience  of  what  Dublin  now  is.  Provincialism  had  not 
then  settled  down  upon  the  city,  with  all  its  petty  attend- 
ant evils.  The  character  of  a  metropolis  was  upheld  by 
a  splendid  Court,  a  resident  Parliament,  a  great  and  titled 
aristocracy.  The  foreground  figures  of  the  time  were  men 
whose  names  stood  high,  and  whose  station  was  recognized 
at  every  Court  of  Europe.  There  was  wealth  more  than 
proportioned  to  the  cheapness  of  the  country;  and  while 
ability  and  talent  were  the  most  striking  features  of  every 
circle,  the  taste  for  gorgeous  display  exhibited  within  doors 
and  without,  threw  a  glare  of  splendor  over  the  scene,  that 


THE   CAPITAL  AND  ITS  PLEASURES.  287 

served  to  illustrate,  but  not  eclipse,  the  prouder  glories  of 
mind.  The  comparative  narrowness  of  the  circle,  and  the 
total  absence  of  English  reserve,  produced  a  more  intimate 
admixture  of  all  the  ranks  which  constitute  good  society 
here  than  in  London,  and  the  advantages  were  evident ;  for 
while  the  aristocrat  gained  immeasurably  from  intercourse 
with  men  whose  pursuits  w^ere  purely  intellectual,  so  the 
latter  acquired  a  greater  expansiveness,  and  a  wider  lib- 
erality in  his  views,  from  being  divested  of  all  the  trammels 
of  mere  professional  habit,  and  threw  off  his  pedantry  as  a 
garment  unsuited  to  his  position  in  society.  But  what  more 
than  all  else  was  the  characteristic  of  the  time,  was  the  fact 
that  social  eminence  —  the  siicces  de  salon  —  was  an  object 
to  every  one.  From  the  proud  peer  who  aspired  to  rank 
and  influence  in  the  councils  of  the  State,  to  the  rising  bar- 
rister ambitious  of  parliamentary  distinction  —  from  the 
mere  fashionable  idler  of  the  squares  to  the  deeper  plotter 
of  political  intrigue  —  this  was  alike  indispensable.  The 
mere  admission  into  certain  circles  was  nothing,  —  the  fact 
of  mixing  with  the  hundred  others  who  are  announced,  and 
bow,  and  smile,  and  slip  away,  did  not  then  serve  to  identify 
a  man  as  belonging  to  a  distinct  class  in  society ;  nor  would 
the  easy  platitudes  of  the  present  day,  in  which  the  fool  or 
the  fop  can  always  have  the  ascendant,  suffice  for  the  ab- 
sence of  conversational  ability,  ready  wit,  and  sharp  intel- 
ligence, which  were  assembled  around  every  dinner-table  of 
the  capital. 

It  is  not  our  duty,  still  less  our  inclination,  to  inquire 
why  have  all  these  goodly  attractions  left  us,  nor  wherefore 
is  it,  that,  like  the  art  of  staining  glass,  social  agreeability 
should  be  lost  forever.  So  it  would  seem,  however ;  we 
have  fallen  upon  tiresome  times,  and  he  who  is  old  enough 
to  remember  pleasanter  ones  has  the  sad  solace  of  knowing 
that  he  has  seen  the  last  of  them. 

Crowded  as  the  capital  was  with  rank,  wealth,  and  in- 
fluence, the  arrival  of  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers  was  not  with- 
out its  eclat.  His  vast  fortune  was  generally  known  ;  besides 
that,  there  was  a  singularity  in  the  fact  of  an  Englishman, 
bound  to  Ireland  by  the  very  slender  tie  of  a  small  estate, 
without  connections  or   friends  in  the  country,  coming  to 


288  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

reside  in  Dublin,  which  gratified  native  pride  as  much  as  it 
excited  public  curiosity ;  and  the  rapidity  with  which  the 
most  splendid  mansion  in  Stephen's  Green  was  prepared  for 
his  reception  vied  in  interest  with  the  speculation  as  to 
what  possible  cause  had  induced  him  to  come  and  live  there. 
The  rumors  of  his  intended  magnificence,  and  the  splendor 
of  his  equipage,  furnished  gossip  for  the  town  and  para- 
graphs for  the  papers. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  wondrous  change  for  those  two  young 
girls,  —  from  the  stillness  and  solitude  of  Glenflesk,  to  the 
gayety  of  the  capital,  from  a  life  of  reflection  and  retire- 
ment, to  the  dazzling  scenes  and  fascinating  pleasures  of  a 
new  world.  Upon  Sybella  the  first  effect  was  to  increase 
her  natural  timidity,  —  to  render  her  more  cautious,  as  she 
found  herself  surrounded  by  influences  so  novel  and  so 
strange ;  and  in  this  wise  there  was  mingled  with  her 
enjoyment  a  sense  of  hesitation  and  fear  that  tinged  all 
her  thoughts,  and  even  impressed  themselves  upon  her 
manner.  Not  so  with  Kate  :  the  instinct  that  made  her  feel 
at  home  in  the  world  was  but  the  consciousness  of  her  own 
powers  of  pleasing.  She  loved  society  as  the  scene  where, 
however  glossed  over  by  conventionalities,  human  passions 
and  feelings  were  at  work,  and  where  the  power  of  influen- 
cing or  directing  others  gave  a  stimulus  to  existence  far 
higher  and  nobler  than  all  the  pleasures  of  retirement.  It 
was  life,  in  fact.  Each  day  had  its  own  separate  interests, 
dramatizing,  as  it  were,  the  real,  and  making  of  the  ordinary 
events  of  the  world  a  romance,  of  which  she  felt  herself  a 
character.  As  much  an  actor  as  spectator,  she  threw  her- 
self into  the  pleasures  of  society  with  a  zest  which  need  only 
have  the  accompaniments  of  youth,  beauty,  and  talents,  to 
make  it  contagious.  Thus  differing  in  character  as  in  ap- 
pearance, these  two  young  girls  at  once  became  the  acknowl- 
edged beauties  of  the  capital,  and  each  was  followed  by  a 
troop  of  admirers,  whose  enthusiasm  exhibited  itself  in  a 
hundred  different  ways.  Their  favorite  colors  at  a  ball 
became  the  fashionable  emblems  of  the  next  day  on  the 
promenade,  and  even  the  ladies  caught  up  the  contagion, 
and  enlisted  themselves  into  parties,  whose  rivalry  amused 
none  so  much  as  those  in  whom  it  had  its  orio;in. 


THE   CAPITAL   AND   ITS   PLEASURES.  289 

While  the  galling  enmity  of  Celt  to  Saxon  was  then  stir- 
ring in  secret  the  hearts  of  thousands  in  the  country,  and 
fashioning  itself  into  the  elements  of  open  insurrection,  the 
city  was  divided  by  a  more  peaceful  animosity,  and  the 
English  and  the  Irish  party  were  arrayed  against  each  other 
in  the  cause  of  beauty. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  a  rivalry  from  which 
every  ungenerous  or  unworthy  feeling  was  more  perfectly 
excluded.  So  far  from  any  jealousy  obtruding,  every  little 
triumph  of  one  was  a  source  of  unalloyed  heartfelt  pleasure 
to  the  other ;  and  while  Sybella  sympathized  with  all  the 
delight  of  Kate's  followers  in  an  Irish  success,  so  Kate, 
with  characteristic  feeling,  enjoyed  nothing  so  much  as  the 
chagrin  of  her  own  party  when  Sybella  was  unquestionably 
in  the  ascendant.  Happily  for  us,  we  are  not  called  upon 
to  explain  a  phenomenon  so  novel  and  so  pleasing,  —  enough 
if  we  record  it.  Certain  it  is,  the  absence  of  all  envy  en- 
hanced the  fascinations  of  each,  and  exalted  the  objects  in 
the  eyes  of  their  admirers.  On  this  point  alone  opinion  was 
undivided :  none  claimed  any  superiority  for  their  idol  by 
ascribing  to  her  a  greater  share  of  this  good  gift ;  nor  could 
even  malice  impute  a  difference  in  their  mutual  affection. 

One  alone  among  the  circle  of  their  acquaintances  stood 
neutral,  —  unable  to  divest  himself  enough  of  natural  par- 
tiality to  be  a  fair  and  just  judge.  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers 
<!andidly  avowed  that  he  felt  himself  out  of  court.  The 
leaders  of  fashion,  the  great  arbiters  of  hon  ton^  were  happily 
divided,  and  if  England  could  boast  of  a  majority  among 
the  Castle  party,  Ireland  turned  the  scale  with  those  who, 
having  enjoyed  opportunities  of  studying  foreign  manner, 
pronounced  Kate's  the  very  perfection  of  French  agreeability, 
united  to  native  loveliness  and  attraction. 

So  much  for  "the  sensation,"  to  use  the  phrase  appro- 
priated by  the  newspapers,  their  entrance  into  the  fashion- 
able life  of  Dublin  excited.  Let  us  now  return  to  the  parties 
themselves.  In  a  large  and  splendidly  furnished  apartment 
of  Sir  Marmaduke's  Dublin  residence,  sat  the  baronet,  his 
daughter,  and  Kate,  at  breakfast,  alternately  reading  from 
the  morning  papers,  and  discussing  the  news  as  they  ate. 

"  Well,  but,  my  dear  Kate,"  —  Sir  Marmaduke  had  eman- 

VOL.  I. —  19 


290  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

cipated  himself  from  the  more  formal  "  Miss  "  a  week  before, 

—  "turn  to  another  column,  and  let  us  hear  if  they  have 
any  political  news." 

*'  There  's  not  a  word,  sir,  unless  an  allusion  to  the  rebel 
color  of  my  dress  at  the  Chancellor's  ball  be  such.  You  see, 
Sybella,  Falkner  fights  not  under  my  banner." 

"  I  think  you  stole  the  Chancellor  himself  from  me," 
replied  Sybella,  laughing,  "  and  I  must  say  most  unhand- 
somely too :  he  had  just  given  me  his  arm,  to  lead  me  to 
a  chair,  when  you  said  something  in  a  half  whisper,  —  I  could 
not  catch  it  if  I  would,  —  he  dropped  my  arm,  burst  out  a 
laughing,  and  hurried  over  to  Lord  Clonmel,  —  I  suppose  to 
repeat  it." 

"It  was  not  worth  relating,  then,"  said  Kate,  with  a  toss 
of  her  head.  "  I  merely  remarked  how  odd  it  was  Lady 
Ridgeway  could  n't  dance  in  time,  with  such  beautiful  clocks 
on  her  stocking." 

"  Oh,  Kate,  dearest!  "  said  Sybella,  who,  while  she  could 
not  refrain  from  a  burst  of  laughter,  became  deep  scarlet  at 
her  friend's  hardihood. 

"  Why,  Meddlicot  told  that  as  his  own  at  supper,"  said 
Sir  Marmaduke. 

"So  he  did,  su-;  but  I  cautioned  him  that  a  license  for 
wholesale  does  not  permit  the  retail  even  of  jokes.  Is  n't  the 
worthy  sheriff  a  druggist?  But  what  have  we  here, — all 
manner  of  changes  on  the  staff :  Lord  Sellbridge  to  join  his 
regiment  at  Hounslow,  vice  Captain  —  your  brother,  Sybella 

—  Captain  Frederick  Travers ;  "  and  she  reddened  slightly 
at  the  words.  "  I  did  not  know  he  was  appointed  aide-de- 
camp to  the  Viceroy." 

"  Nor  did  I,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke.  "  I  knew 
he  was  most  anxious  to  make  the  exchange  with  Lord 
Sellbridge ;  but  this  is  the  first  I  have  heard  of  the  success 
of  his  negotiation.'* 

"You  see,  Kate,"  said  Sybella,  while  a  sly  glance  shot 
beneath  her  long-lashed  lids,  "  that  even  Fred  has  become 
a  partisan  of  Ireland." 

"  Perhaps  the  prospect  of  the  revolt  he  hinted  at,"  replied 
Kate,  with  an  air  of  scornful  pride,  "  has  made  the  Guards- 
man prefer  this  country  for  the  moment." 


THE   CAPITAL  AND  ITS  PLEASURES.  291 

"  I  incline  to  a  very  different  reason,"  said  S^^bella,  but 
in  a  voice  so  subdued  as  to  be  only  audible  to  Kate  herself, 
who  again  blushed  deeply,  and  seemed  greatly  confused. 

''Ha!  here  it  is,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  reading  aloud  a 
long  paragraph  from  a  morning  paper,  which,  descanting  on 
the  abortiveness  of  any  effort  to  destroy  the  peace  of  the 
realm  by  enemies  without  or  within  its  frontiers,  concluded 
with  a  glowing  panegyric  on  the  blessings  of  the  British 
constitution.  "  '  The  Government,  while  confiding  implicitly 
on  the  loyalty  and  bravery  of  his  Majesty's  people,  have  yet 
neglected  no  measures  of  precaution  against  the  insane  and 
rash  attempts  of  our  "  natural  enemies,"  whose  temerity  is 
certain  of  again  receiving  the  same  severe  lesson  which  every 
attempt  upon  our  shores  has  taught  them.'  Yes — yes  — 
very  prompt  and  active  measures  —  nothing  could  be  better/* 
muttered  he  to  himself. 

''  May  I  ask  what  they  consist  in,  these  precautionary 
movements  ?  "  said  Kate. 

''  A  full  organization  of  the  militia  and  yeomanry,"  replied 
Sir  Marmaduke,  proudly,  —  for  he  commanded  a  regiment 
of  Northamptonshire  Fencibles,  —  "  strengthening  the  differ- 
ent garrisons  in  large  towns,  mounting  guns  of  heavy  calibre 
on  the  forts  —  " 

A  hearty  burst  of  laughter  broke  from  Kate,  which  she 
made  no  effort  to  control  whatever. 

'•I  cannot  help  laughing,  because  that  same  word  recalls 
a  conversation  I  once  heard  between  two  French  officers  in 
Bruges.  One  of  them,  who  seemed  to  know  Ireland  well, 
averred  that  these  forts  were  so  placed  as  only  to  be  capable 
of  battering  down  each  other.  I  know  he  instanced  two  on 
the  southern  coast,  which,  in  three  discharges,  must  inevi- 
tably make  a  drawn  battle  of  it." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke,  with  an 
unusual  gravity,  "  it  is  not  exactly  to  our  enemies  we  must 
look  for  any  warm  encomium  on  our  means  of  defence ;  nor 
has  experience  yet  shown  that  British  courage  can  be  justly 
a  subject  for  a  Frenchman's  laughter." 

''  And  as  to  the  militia  and  yeomanry,"  continued  Kate, 
for  she  seemed  bent  on  tormenting,  and  totally  indifferent  to 
the  consequences  regarding  herself,  "  Colonel  Delcamp  called 


292  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

them  '  arsenaux  ambulants,'  admirably  contrived  to  provide 
an  invading  army  with  arms  and  ammunition." 

"I  heartily  wish  your  friend  Colonel  Delcamp  would 
favor  us  with  a  visit  of  inspection,"  said  the  baronet,  scarcely 
able  to  control  his  anger. 

"I  should  not  think  the  occurrence  unlikely,"  was  the 
cool  reply;  "  and  if  so,  I  may  be  permitted  to  assure  you 
that  you  will  be  much  pleased  with  his  manners  and  agree- 
ability."  Sybella's  imploring  look  was  all  in  vain.  Kate,  as 
she  herself  said,  belonged  to  a  race  who  neither  gave  nor 
took  quarter,  and  such  a  controversy  was  the  very  conflict 
she  gloried  in.  How  it  was  to  be  carried  on  any  farther  is 
not  easy  to  foresee,  had  not  the  difficulty  been  solved  by  the 
entrance  of  Frederick  Travers,  come  to  communicate  the  news 
of  his  appointment.  While  Sir  Marmaduke  and  Sybella  ex- 
pressed their  joy  at  his  success,  Kate,  half  chagrined  at  the 
interruption  to  a  game  where  she  already  deemed  herself  the 
winner,  walked  towards  the  window  and  looked  out. 

"  Have  I  nothing  like  congratulation  to  expect  from  Miss 
O'Donoghue?"  said  Frederick,  as  he  placed  himself  at  her 
side. 

''  I  scarcely  knew  if  it  were  a  subject  where  congratula- 
tion would  be  suitable.  To  exchange  the  glories  of  London 
life,  the  fascinations  of  a  great  Court,  and  the  society  of  the 
first  people  in  the  land,  for  the  lesser  splendors  of  a  second- 
rate  capital,  — perhaps  you  might  have  smiled  at  the  simpli- 
city of  wishing  j^ou  joy  for  all  this ;  "  and  here  her  voice 
assumed  a  deeper,  fuller  accent.  "  I  own  that  I  do  not  feel 
Ireland  in  a  position  to  bear  even  a  smile  of  scorn  without 
offence  to  one  of  her  children." 

"I  was  not  aware  till  now  that  you  could  suspect  me  of 
such  a  feeling." 

"You  are  an  Englishman,  sir,  —  that's  enough,"  said 
Kate,  hurriedly.  "  In  your  eyes,  we  are  the  people  you 
have  conquered ;  and  it  would  be  too  much  to  expect  you 
should  entertain  great  respect  for  the  prejudices  you  have 
labored  to  subdue.  But,  after  all,  there  is  a  distinction 
worth  making,  and  you  have  not  made  it." 

"  And  that  is  —  if  I  dare  ask  —  " 

"  That  is,  there  is  a  wide  difference  between  conquering 


THE   CAPITAL  AND   ITS   PLEASURES.  293 

the  territory  and  gaining  the  affections  of  a  people.  You 
have  succeeded  in  one ;  you  '11  never,  at  least  by  your 
present  courses,  accomplish  the  other." 

"  Speak  more  plainly  to  me,"  said  Travers,  who  felt  a 
double  interest  in  a  conversation  which  every  moment  con- 
tained an  allusion  that  bore  upon  his  own  fortune. 

"There  —  there,  su',"  said  Kate,  proudly,  "your  very 
request  is  an  answer  to  yourself.  We  here,  who  have  known 
each  other  for  some  time,  have  had  opportunities  of  inter- 
changing opinions  and  sentiments,  cannot  understand  a 
simple  matter  in  the  same  way,  nor  regard  it  in  the  same 
light ;  how  do  you  suppose  that  millions,  separated  by  dis- 
tance, habits,  and  pursuits,  can  attain  to  what  we,  with  our 
advantages,  have  failed  in?  Can  you  not  see  that  we  are 
not  the  same  people  ? " 

"But  need  our  dissimilitudes  sever  —  may  tney  not  be 
made  rather  ties  to  bind  us  more  closely  together  ?  "  said  he, 
tenderly. 

"  Equality  for  the  future,  even  if  we  obtained  it,  cannot 
eradicate  the  memory  of  the  past.     The  penal  laws  —  '* 

"  Come  —  come.  There  is  no  longer  anything  there. 
See  the  University,  for  instance.  By  the  by," — and  here 
Travers  caught  eagerly  at  the  opportunity  of  escape,  — 
*'what  of  Herbert?  Is  not  this  near  the  time  for  his 
examination?  " 

"  The  very  day,  the  28th  of  February,"  said  she,  reading 
from  a  small  memorandum-book.  "It  is  six  weeks  yester- 
day since  we  have  seen  him  —  poor  boy !  " 

"  How  pale  and  sickly  he  looked,  too  !  I  wish  with  all  my 
heart  he  had  not  set  his  mind  so  eagerly  on  college  success." 

"  It  is  only  for  women  to  live  without  ambition  of  one  sort 
or  other,"  replied  Kate,  sadly;  "and  a  very  poor  kind  of 
existence  it  is,  I  assure  you." 

"  What  if  we  were  to  make  a  party,  and  meet  him  as  he 
comes  out?  We  might  persuade  him  to  join  us  at  dinner, 
too." 

"Well  thought  of,  Fred,"  said  Sir  Marmaduke.  "Her- 
bert seems  to  have  forgotten  us  latterly,  and  knowing  his 
anxiety  to  succeed,  I  really  scrupled  at  the  thought  of  idling 
him." 


294  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"  It 's  very  kind  of  you  all,"  said  Kate,  with  one  of  her 
sweetest  smiles,  "  to  remember  the  poor  student,  and  there 
is  nothing  I  should  like  better  than  the  plan  you  propose." 

'^We  must  find  out  the  hour  they  leave  the  Hall,"  said 
Frederick. 

"  I  heard  him  say  it  was  at  four  o'clock,"  said  Sybella, 
timidly,  venturing  for  the  first  time  to  interpose  a  word  in 
the  conversation. 

"  You  have  the  best  memory  in  the  world,  Sybella,"  whis- 
pered Kate  in  her  friend's  ear ;  and  simple  as  the  words 
were,  they  called  the  blush  to  her  cheek  in  an  instant. 

The  morning  passed  away  in  the  thousand  little  avoca- 
tions which  aflfiuence  and  ease  have  invented  to  banish 
ennui  and  render  life  always  interesting.  A  few  minutes 
before  four  o'clock  the  splendid  equipage  of  Sir  Marmaduke 
Travers,  in  all  the  massive  perfection  of  its  London  appoint- 
ments, drew  up  at  the  outer  gate  of  the  University ;  the 
party  preferring  to  enter  the  courts  on  foot 

As  Frederick  Travers,  with  his  two  lady  companions, 
appeared  within  the  walls,  the  murmur  of  their  names  ran 
through  the  crowd  of  gownsmen  already  assembled  in  the 
court;  for  although  by  College  time  it  still  wanted  fifteen 
minutes  of  the  hour,  a  considerable  number  of  students 
were  gathered  together,  anxious  to  hear  the  result  of  the 
day.  The  simple  but  massive  style  of  the  buildings ;  the 
sudden  change  from  the  tumult  and  noise  of  a  crowded 
city  to  the  silence  and  quietude  of  these  spacious  quad- 
rangles ;  the  number  of  youths  dressed  in  their  University 
costume,  and  either  gazing  wistfully  at  the  door  of  the 
Examination  Hall,  or  conversing  eagerly  together,  were  all 
matters  of  curious  interest  to  the  Travers's  party,  who  saw 
themselves  in  a  world  so  different  from  that  they  daily 
moved  in.  Nor  were  the  loungers  the  students  only ;  mixed 
up  with  them,  here  and  there,  might  be  seen  some  of  the 
leading  barristers  of  the  day,  and  one  or  two  of  the  most 
distinguished  members  of  the  House  of  Commons,  —  men 
who  themselves  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  College  success, 
and  were  fain,  even  by  a  passing  moment,  to  refresh  the 
memory  of  youthful  triumphs,  and  bring  back,  by  the  sight 
of  familiar  objects,  the  recollection  of  days  to  which  all  the 


THE   CAPITAL  AND  ITS   PLEASURES.  295 

glories  of  after  life  are  but  poor  in  comparison.  Many  of 
these  were  recognized  by  the  students,  and  saluted  by  them 
with  marks  of  profound  respect ;  and  one,  a  small,  mean- 
looking  man,  with  jet-black  eyes  and  olive  complexion,  was 
received  with  a  cheer,  which  was  with  difficulty  arrested  by 
a  waving  motion  with  his  hand  and  a  gesture  towards  the 
door  of  the  Hall,  from  which,  with  a  hollow,  cavernous 
sound,  a  heavy  bolt  was  now  drawn,  and  the  wide  portal 
opened.  A  general  movement  in  the  crowd  showed  how 
intense  expectation  then  was ;  but  it  was  destined  to  a  fur- 
ther trial,  for  it  was  only  the  head  porter,  dressed  in  his 
crimson  robe,  and  carrying  his  cap  at  arm's  length  before 
him,  who,  followed  by  the  Provost,  issued  forth :  the  stu- 
dents removed  their  caps,  and  stood  in  respectful  silence 
as  he  passed.  Again  the  door  was  closed,  and  all  was 
still. 

'*  There  is  something  in  all  this  that  stimulates  curiosity 
strongly,"  said  Kate.  "When  I  came  in  here  I  could  have 
waited  patiently  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  now,  the  sight  of 
all  these  anxious  faces,  these  prying  looks,  that  seem  eager 
to  pierce  the  very  door  itself,  those  short  sentences,  broken 
by  quick  glances  at  the  clock,  have  worked  me  up  to  an 
excitement  high  and  fevered  as  their  own." 

"  It  wants  but  a  minute  now,"  said  Fred. 

''  I  think  the  hand  has  not  moved  for  the  last  ten,"  said 
Sybella,  smiling  faintly. 

"I  hope  he  has  gained  the  prize,"  muttered  Kate,  below 
her  breath;  and  at  the  moment  the  bell  tolled,  and  the  wide 
doors,  as  if  burst  open  by  the  sound,  were  flung  wide, 
and  the  human  tide  poured  forth,  and  mingled  with  that 
beneath ;  but  what  a  different  aspect  did  it  present.  The 
faces  were  mostly  flushed  and  heated,  the  eyes  flashing,  the 
dress  disordered,  the  cravats  awry,  the  hair  tangled,  —  all 
the  signs  of  mental  excitement,  long  and  arduously  sus- 
tained, were  there,  and  save  a  few,  whose  careless  look  and 
unmoved  expression  showed  that  their  part  had  no  high 
ambition  at  stake,  all  were  impressed  with  the  same 
character  of  mingled  eagerness  and  exhaustion. 

Many  among  these  were  quickly  singled  out  and  sur- 
rounded  by  troops   of  eager  and  anxious  friends,  and  the 


296  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

passing  stranger  might  easily  read  in  the  tone  and  accent 
of  the  speaker  his  fortune,  whether  good  or  evil. 

"Where  is  Herbert?  —  where  can  he  be?  —  I  don't  see 
him,"  said  each  of  the  Travers's  party,  as,  mingling  with 
the  crowd,  they  cast  their  anxious  looks  on  every  side ; 
but  amid  the  bustle  of  the  scene,  the  hurrying  forms,  and 
the  babble  of  tongues,  they  felt  bewildered  and  confused. 

"Let  us  try  at  his  chambers,"  said  Frederick;  "he  will, 
in  all  likelihood,  be  there  soon."  And  at  once  they  turned 
their  steps  towards  the  corner  of  the  old  square  near  the 
library,  where  Herbert  lived  his  solitary  life;  for  although 
nominally  linked  with  a  companion,  a  chum,  in  college 
parlance,  he  rarely  made  his  appearance  within  the  walls, 
and  then  only  for  a  few  days  at  a  time. 

When  they  reached  the  door  they  found  it  open,  and 
without  further  waiting,  or  any  notice  of  their  approach, 
they  entered,  but  so  noiselessly  and  quietly  withal  that  the 
deep  accents  of  grief  —  the  heavy  sound  of  broken  sobs  — 
struck  at  once  upon  their  ears.  They  stopped  and  gazed  in 
silence  at  each  other,  reading,  as  it  were,  their  own  heart- 
felt fears  in  the  face  of  each. 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  Kate,  as  her  proud  lip  trembled  with 
agitation;  "this  is  a  sad  beginning." 

"Let  us  go  back,"  whispered  Sybella,  faintly,  and  her 
cheek  was  pale  as  death  as  she  spoke. 

"No,  no,"  cried  Frederick,  hurriedly;  "we  must  cheer 
him  up.  What  signifies  the  whole  affair,  —  a  piece  of  mere 
boyish  ambition  that  he  '11  only  laugh  at  one  of  these  days." 

"Not  so,"  said  Kate;  "the  augury  of  success  or  failure 
In  the  outset  of  life  is  no  such  trifle  as  you  deem  it.  If  he 
be  faint-hearted,  the  game  is  up  with  him  forever;  if  he  be 
made  of  sterner  stuff,  as  one  of  his  name  and  house  ought 
to  be,  he  '11  revenge  his  present  fall  by  a  great  hereafter. 
Let  me  see  him;"  and,  at  once  disengaging  her  arm,  she 
walked  forward  and  entered  the  chamber,  while  Frederick 
and  his  sister  retired  to  the  court  to  await  her  return. 

When  Kate  O'Donoghue  entered  the  room,  Herbert  was 
seated  before  a  table,  on  which  his  head  was  leaning,  with 
his  hands  pressed  against  his  face.  At  his  feet  lay  his  cap, 
and  the  books  he  carried  with  him  from  the  Hall.     Uncon- 


THE   CAPITAL  AND  ITS  PLEASURES. 


29T 


scious  of  her  presence,  lost  to  everything  save  his  over- 
whelming affliction,  the  sobs  came  with  a  convulsive  shudder 
that  shook  his"  frame  and  made  the  very  table  rattle,  while 
at  intervals  there  broke  from  him  a  faint  moan  of  heart- 
rending sorrow. 


'^'.■&\. 


"My  dear  brother,"  said  Kate,  placing  her  arm  around 
his  neck.  The  boy  started  and  looked  up,  and,  prepared  as 
she  was  to  see  the  traces  of  suffering  there,  she  started  at 
the  ravages  long  days  and  nights  of  study  and  deep  grief 
had  left  behind  them.  His  eyes  wei'e  sunk,  and  surrounded 
by  dark  circles  that  made  them  seem  quite  buried  beneath 
his  brows.  His  forehead  traversed  by  a  network  of  blue 
veins,  had  that  transparent  thinness  mental  labor  impresses, 
and  his  lips  were  thin  and  colorless ;  while  on  each  cheek  a 
burning  spot  of   red  looked  like  the  mark  of  hectic.     He 


298  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

made  no  answer,  but  the  tears  ran  fast  from  bis  eyes,  and 
ills  mouth  quivered  as  he  tried  to  say  something. 

She  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  same  chair,  and  bending 
her  head  till  the  silken  curls  touched  his  very  cheek,  she 
spoke  to  him,  —  not  in  words  of  encouragement  or  good 
cheer,  for  such  her  own  instinct  told  her  were  inapplicable ; 
but  in  the  soft  accents  of  affection,  neither  undervaluing 
the  source  of  his  grief,  nor  yet  suffering  him  to  be  carried 
away  by  his  own  sense  of  his  calamity.  "Remember,  my 
dear  brother,"  said  she,  "you  are  not  less  dear  to  our  hearts 
for  all  this.  Remember  that  for  the  casualties  of  the  world 
and  its  chances,  we  can  only  do  our  utmost;  that  success  is 
not  for  us  to  determine,  but  to  strive  for.  Had  you  won 
to-day,  some  other  must  now  have  grieved  like  you,  and 
who  can  tell  if  he  could  count  as  many  fond  and  loving 
hearts  to  feel  for  and  console  him  ?  " 

"Oh,  if  you  knew  how  I  strived  and  longed  —  how  I 
prayed  for  success,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  almost  stifled  by 
convulsive  throbs. 

"And  it  will  come  yet,  Herbert.  The  tree  is  only  the 
more  fruitful  when  the  knife  has  cut  down  to  its  very  heart. 
Yours  is  not  the  natui'e  to  be  deterred  by  one  repulse,  nor 
yours  the  name  to  be  stamped  with  failure  because  the  con- 
test is  difficult.  Ambitious  are  only  noble  when  their  path 
is  steep.  Who  knows  how  indolent  you  might  have  become 
had  you  found  the  prize  too  easily  won.  Come,  come, 
Herbert;  enough  for  the  past.  Look  forward  now,  and 
with  good  courage  and  hope.  The  next  struggle  will  end 
differently;  but,  above  all,  wear  a  fair  face  before  the 
world.  I  remember  some  French  prisoners  being  brought 
into  Courtray,  who  amused  us  so  much  by  their  gay  and 
smiling  air,  and  look  of  ease  and  satisfaction.  Their 
secret  was,  that  defeat  was  never  disgrace,  save  when  it 
lowered  the  spirit  and  made  the  heart  droop.  Theirs  never 
failed,  and  I  promise  you  we  thought  all  the  better  of 
them." 

"But  my  uncle  —  who  is  to  tell  him  —  " 

"Let  me  tell  him.  I  see  you  have  begun  a  letter 
already  —  " 

"That  was  written  last  night,"  said  the  boy,  as  the  tears 


THE   CAPITAL  AND   ITS  PLEASURES.  2Q9 

gushed  forth  afresh,  —  "last  night,  when  hope  was  almost 
certainty." 

"Then  I  '11  finish  it,"  said  Kate,  taking  up  the  half- 
written  letter. 

"Say  to  him  —  I  would  wish  him  to  know  all  —  say  that 
I  had  beaten  my  opponents  down  to  one,  and  that  he,  too, 
almost  gave  up  the  contest,  when,  somehow,  —  I  cannot  now 
say  exactly  how  or  wherefore,  —  I  got  into  a  dispute  with 
the  examiner  about  the  meaning  of  a  word  in  Terence. 
He  seemed  to  enjoy  the  eagerness  with  which  I  defended 
my  opinion  for  a  time,  and  actually  encouraged  my  persist- 
ence, until  at  length,  my  temper  excited  and  my  brain  on 
fire,  I  said  something,  —  I  know  not  what,  —  but  it  was  evi- 
dently an  offence,  for  he  closed  the  book,  and  merely 
replied,  'Enough,  sir;  I  give  your  opponent  the  premium. 
His  temper  more  than  compensates  for  any  deficiency  in 
his  scholarship;'  and  I  was  beaten."  The  last  words 
evoked  all  his  sorrow  once  more,  and  the  youth  burst  into 
tears. 

"That,  then,  I  call  unfair,"  said  Kate,  passionately, 
"unless  the  gentleman  were  the  arbiter  of  temperament  as 
well  as  talent.  Come,  Herbert,  even  this  should  reconcile 
you  to  your  fortune;  you  have  not  failed  unworthily." 

"But  my  uncle,  Kate,  —  my  uncle  will  deem  it  far  other- 
wise. To  guard  against  this  very  error  of  my  temper  was 
almost  the  last  pledge  I  made  him;  and  here,  in  my  first 
trial,   see  how  I  have  kept  my  promise." 

"Leave  the  explanation  tome;  only  promise  one  thing, 
—  and  mind,  Herbert,  this  is  a  pledge  there  must  be  no  for- 
getting, —  do  all  in  your  power;  spare  nothing  to  win  the 
next  time.  I  care  not  whether  you  ever  carry  away  an- 
other prize  within  these  walls ;  but  one  you  must  have.  Is 
this  agreed?  —  give  me  your  hand  upo-n  it.  There,  that's 
like  your  own  self,  and  now  don't  waste  another  thought  on 
what 's  bygone.  The  Traverses  invited  you  to  dine  with 
them  to-day." 

"Oh,  no  —  no." 

"No,  I  have  no  intention  to  press  you,  only  come  soon 
to  see  us,  — to  see  me."  She  kissed  his  forehead  tenderly 
as  she  spoke  the  last  word,  and  glided  rapidly  from  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

FIRST   IMPRESSIONS. 

Kate  O'Donoghue  was  more  deeply  affected  by  Herbert's 
failure  than  she  had  let  appear  to  the  youth,  or  even  con- 
fessed to  herself.  It  was  not  that  the  character  of  his 
ambition  enlisted  her  sympathies  or  engaged  her  interest. 
Far  from  it;  she  thought  too  meanly  of  such  triumphs,  and 
knew  not  how  far  they  shed  an  influence  on  a  future  career. 
The  habits  of  her  education  —  all  her  early  prejudices  — 
disposed  her  to  regard  the  life  of  a  soldier  as  the  only  one 
becoming  a  gentleman.  The  passion  for  military  glory 
which  the  great  victories  of  the  Republic  and  the  Consulate 
had  spread  throughout  Europe,  penetrated  into  every  remote 
village  of  the  Continent;  and  even  the  prison-like  walls  of 
the  convent  did  not  keep  out  the  spirit-stirring  sounds  of 
drum  and  trumpet,  the  tramp  of  marching  hosts,  and  the 
proud  clangor  of  war.  It  was  a  time  when  the  soldier  was 
everything.  There  was  but  one  path  in  life  by  which  to 
win  honor,  rank,  fame,  and  fortune.  Even  the  humblest 
might  strive,  for  the  race  was  open  to  all ;  or,  in  the  phrase 
of  the  period,  every  conscript  left  a  spare  corner  in  his 
knapsack  for  his  future  hdton  de  marechal. 

All  she  had  ever  seen  of  foreign  society  partook  of  this 
character;  for,  strangely  enough,  on  the  ruin  of  an  aristoc- 
racy a  new  and  splendid  chivalry  was  founded,  —  a  chivalry 
whose  fascinations  covered  many  a  wrong,  and  made  many 
a  bad  cause  glorious  by  the  heroism  it  evoked.  The  peace- 
ful path  in  life  was  then,  in  her  estimate,  the  inglorious 
one.  Still,  her  proud  nature  could  not  brook  defeat  in  any- 
thing. It  was  not  without  its  influence  upon  the  hearts  and 
minds  of  her  house  that  the  eagle  figured  as  their  crest. 
The  soaring  bird,  with  outstretched  wing,  careering  high 
above    his   compeers,    told  of   a   race   who  once,    at   least, 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS.  301 

thought   no    ambition    above    their   daring;    and    she    was 
worthy  of  the  haughtiest  of  her  ancestors. 

Too  proud  to  enter  into  any  detail  of  Herbert's  failure, 
she  dismissed  the  subject  as  briefly  as  she  could,  and  made 
her  appearance  in  the  drawing-room  without  any  percep- 
tible change  of  manner;  nor  did  she  appear  to  take  any 
notice  of  the  announcement  made  by  Sir  Marmaduke  to  his 
son,  that  Hemsworth,  who  had  just  arrived  from  Scotland, 
would  join  the  family  circle  at  dinner.  Kate  had  never 
seen  him,  but  his  name  was  long  associated  in  her  mind 
with  anecdotes  of  oppression  and  cruelty  to  her  uncle,  —  of 
petty  insults  and  annoyances  which  the  letters  from  Carrig- 
nacurra  used  constantly  to  tell  of,  and  of  which  her  rela- 
tives abroad  had  often  descanted  in  her  hearing.  The 
picture  she  had  drawn  of  him  in  her  own  mind  was  not  a 
flattering  one,  composed  of  features  and  ingredients  which 
represented  all  that  was  base,  low-minded,  and  treacherous : 
a  vulgar  sycophant,  and  a  merciless  tyrant.  What  was  her 
astonishment,  almost  her  chagrin,  to  discover  that  Hems- 
worth  entered  the  room  a  gentlemanlike  person,  of  about 
five-and-forty,  tall  and  well-formed,  with  regular  features, 
rather  melancholy  in  their  expression  than  otherwise,  with 
a  voice  singularly  low,  soft,  and  pleasing,  his  manner  a 
mixture  of  well-bred  ease  and  that  excessive  deference 
so  often  seen  in  those  who  have  passed  a  long  portion  of 
life  about  persons  of  rank  superior  to  their  own,  but  with- 
out the  slightest  trace,  that  she  could  discover,  of  anything 
subservient.  With  all  her  disposition  to  be  critical,  she 
could  find  little  fault  with  either  his  manner  or  his  conver- 
sation, nor  could  she  detect  any  appearance  of  affectation. 
On  the  contrary,  he  seemed  affable,  like  one  who  felt  him- 
self among  friends,  and  need  set  no  limits  to  his  natural 
frankness.  On  the  several  topics  he  talked,  he  spoke  with 
good  sense  and  fairness ;  and  even  when  the  often  agitated 
question  of  the  state  of  Ireland  was  alluded  to,  he  surprised 
Kate  by  the  absence  of  any  violent  or  exaggerated  tone, 
speaking  of  the  people  in  terms  of  kindliness  and  even  af- 
fection; lauding  the  native  virtues  of  their  character,  and 
dwelling  with  pleasure  on  the  traits  which  advantageously 
distinguish  them  from  the  peasantry  of  other  lands. 


302  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

She  listened  at  first  with  suspicion  and  distrust,  then,  by 
degrees,  with  interested  attention,  and,  at  last,  with  actual 
delight,  to  the  narrative  he  gave  of  the  social  condition  of 
Ireland ;  in  which  he  labored  to  show  that  a  mistaken  esti- 
mate of  the  people  by  England  —  a  misconception  of  the 
national  character,  a  contempt  of  it,  perhaps  —  had  per- 
petuated usages  which,  by  their  injustice,  had  excited  the 
hatred  and  animosity  of  the  country,  and  led  to  that  con- 
dition of  insulting  depreciation  on  one  side,  and  proud 
defiance  on  the  other,  which  the  two  people  exhibited 
towards  each  other. 

So  well  and  ably  did  he  sustain  his  part,  so  powerfully 
support  each  position  by  reference  to  some  fact  with  which 
his  ample  memory  supplied  him,  that  Sir  Marmaduke  was 
eventually  obliged  to  confess  himself  vanquished,  though  un- 
convinced, —  who  ever  was  when  worsted  ?  —  and  Frederick, 
chagrined  at  the  favor  Kate  bestowed  on  the  speaker, 
merely  remarked,  as  he  concluded,  — 

"Very  conclusive  and  satisfactory,  I  have  no  doubt  it  is; 
but,  in  my  mind,  all  you  have  said  goes  to  prove  that  we 
English  are  a  very  inferior  nation,  and  very  unworthily 
placed  in  rule  and  governance  over  a  people  so  much  our 
superiors." 

Kate's  eyes  flashed  with  an  unwonted  fire,  and  for  an 
instant  she  felt  almost  unable  to  control  the  temptation  to 
answer  this  taunt;  but  a  quiet  smile  of  half  acquiescence 
on  Hems  worth's  face  so  adequatel}^  expressed  what  she 
wished,  but  dared  not  say,  that  she  merely  returned  the 
smile,   and  was   silent. 

Had  Hemsworth's  whole  object  been  on  that  evening  to 
disabuse  Kate  O'Donoghue  of  her  dislike  to  him,  to  obliter- 
ate all  memory  of  the  wrongs  with  which  she  had  heard  him 
charged  towards  her  family,  he  could  not  have  chosen  a 
more  successful  path.  There  was  the  very  degree  of  firm- 
ness and  decision  she  admired  in  the  manner  he  gave  his 
opinions,  and  yet  all  the  courtesy  of  one  who  would  not  be 
supposed  capable  of  advancing  them  as  incontrovertible  or 
irrefutable.  They  were  merely  his  sentiments,  —  his  mode 
of  seeing  and  estimating  particular  events,  of  which  another 
might  judge  differently.     For  all  he  advanced  he  was  ready 


FIRST   IMPRESSIONS.  303 

to  show  his  reasons,  —  they  might  be  shallow,  they  might 
be  iucouclusive,  —  but  they  were  his,  aucl,  fortuuatel}^  for 
his  chance  of  winning  her  favor,  they  were  her  opinions 
also. 

"So  you  think  we  shall  have  no  outbreak,  Hemsworth," 
said  Sir  Marmaduke,  as  they  sat  at  tea. 

"I  scarcely  go  so  far,"  said  he,  gravely.  "There  are 
too  many  reasons  for  an  opposite  fear,  to  say  so  much, 
even  if  the  Secretary  of  State  did  not  assure  us  that  the 
danger  is  over.  The  youth  of  Ireland  will  always  be  dan- 
gerous when  left  without  a  career  or  a  road  to  their  ambi- 
tion ;  and  from  them  any  peril  that  may  now  be  apprehended 
will  certainly  come.  Many  young  men  of  the  best  families 
of  the  country,  whose  estates  are  deeply  encumbered,  heavy 
mortgages  and  large  dowries  weighing  them  down,  are 
ready  to  join  in  any  bold  attempt  which  promises  a  new 
order  of  things.  They  see  themselves  forgotten  in  the  dis- 
tribution of  all  patronage,  excluded  from  every  office; 
sometimes  for  reasons  of  religion,  sometimes  for  family, 
even  for  a  mere  namesake.  They  are  ready  to  play  a  bold 
game,  where  losing  is  only  quicker  ruin,  and  to  gain  would 
be  a  glorious  victory." 

"But  what  could  a  few  rash  and  desperate  young  men 
like  these  effect  against  a  power  so  great  and  so  consoli- 
dated as  England  ?  " 

"Little,  perhaps,  as  regards  the  overthrow  of  a  govern- 
ment, but  a  world  of  injury  to  the  prospect  of  future  quiet. 
The  rebellion  of  a  week  —  ay,  a  day  —  in  Ireland,  will  sow 
the  seeds  of  fifty  years  of  miser}^,  and  retard  the  settlement 
of  peaceful  relations  at  least  another  century.  Had  the 
Minister  made  the  same  concessions  here  he  was  glad  to 
accord  to  Scotland,  had  he,  without  insulting  a  nationality 
converted  it  into  a  banner  under  which  loyalty  was  only 
rendered  more  conspicuous,  you  might  have,  perchance, 
seen  a  different  order  of  things  in  Ireland." 

"For  the  life  of  me,  I  cannot  see  the  evils  and  wrongs 
these  people  labor  under.  I  have  a  very  large  Irish  acquain- 
tance in  London,  and  pleasanter,  happier  fellows  cannot 
exist  than  they  are." 

•'  All  the  young  men  of  family  in  Ireland  are  not  in  the 


304  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Guards,"  said  Hemsworth,  with  a  smile,  which,  with  all  its 
blandishment,  very  thinly  covered  over  the  sarcasm  of  his 
remark. 

Frederick's  face  flushed  angrily,  and  he  turned  away 
without  speaking. 

"Should  we  not  ask  pardon  of  the  ladies  for  this  subject 
of  our  conversation?  "  said  Hemsworth.  "I  am  sure 
neither  Miss  Travers  nor  Miss  O'Donoghue  deem  the  topic 
interesting  or  amusing." 

"On  the  contrary,  sir,  I  believe  I  may  reply  for  both  of 
us,"  said  Kate,  "whatever  concerns  the  fortunes  of  a  coun- 
try we  have  so  near  at  heart  has  all  our  sympathy ;  and,  as 
an  Irish  girl,  I  feel  grateful  for  your  explanation  of  motives 
which,  while  I  appreciate,  I  should  still  be  unable  so  satis- 
factorily to  account  for." 

•'How  happy  I  am  to  meet  my  countrywoman's  approval," 
said  Hemsworth,  bowing  courteously,  and  with  a  marked 
emphasis  directing  his  speech  to  Kate. 

The  manner  in  which  he  spoke  the  words  was  so  palpably 
intended  for  herself,  that  she  felt  all  the  charm  of  a  flattery 
to  which  the  disparity  of  their  years  imparted  force. 

Soon  after  tea.  Sir  Marmaduke  retired  with  Hemsworth 
to  his  study.  Frederick  took  his  leave  at  the  same  time, 
and  Sybella  and  Kate  were  left  alone  together. 

''I  have  a  long  letter  to  write  this  evening,  my  dear 
Sybella,"  said  Kate,  after  they  had  talked  some  time. 
"Poor  Herbert  has  failed  in  his  examination,  and  I  have 
promised  to  break  the  news  to  my  uncle,  —  not  so  difficult  a 
task  as  the  poor  boy  deems,  but  one  to  which  he  is  himself 
unequal." 

"Does  he  then  feel  it  so  deeply?"  said  Sybella,  timidly. 

"Too  much,  as  regards  the  object  of  the  ambition;  but 
no  more  than  he  ought  as  a  defeat.  It  is  so  bad  to  be 
beaten,  Sybella,"  said  she,  with  a  sharp  distinctness  on 
each  word.  "I  shall  hate  the  sight  of  that  University  until 
he  carries  off  the  next  prize ;  and  then  —  then  I  care  not 
whether  his  taste  incline  him  for  another  effort ;  "  and  so 
saying,  she  embraced  her  friend,  and  they  parted  for  the 
night. 

The  epistle  which  Kate  had  promised  to  conclude  was  in 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS.  305 

itself  a  lengthy  one,  — written  at  different  intervals  during 
the  week  before  the  examination,  and  containing  a  minute 
account  of  his  progress,  his  hopes  and  his  fears,  up  to  that 
very  moment.  There  was  little  in  it  which  could  interest 
any  but  him  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  and  to  whom  every 
allusion  was  familiar,  and  the  reference  to  each  book  and 
subject  thoroughly  known,  — what  difficulties  he  had  found 
here,  what  obscurity  there,  how  well  he  had  mastered  this, 
how  much  he  feared  he  might  have  mistaken  the  other,  — 
until  on  the  evening  of  the  first  day's  examination,  when 
the  following  few  lines,  written  with  trembling  hand, 
appeared :  — 

"They  say  I  shall  gain  it.     H called  my  translation 

of  Horace  a  brilliant  one,  and  asked  the  Vice-Provost  to 
listen  to  my  repeating  it.  I  heard  I  gave  it  in  blank  verse. 
Oh,  my  dearest  uncle,  am  I  deceiving  myself,  and  deceiving 
you?     Shall  I  be  able  to  write  thus  to-morrow  night?  " 

Then  came  one  tremulous  line,  dated  "Twelve  o'clock." 

''Better  and  better;  I  might  almost  even  now  say,  victory; 
but  my  heart  is  too  much  excited  to  endure  a  chance." 

"And  it  remains  for  me,  my  dear  uncle,"  wrote  Kate, 
after  these  words,  "to  fulfil  the  ungrateful  task  of  bearing 
bad  tidings;  and  I,  who  have  never  had  the  good  fortune 
to  bring  you  happiness,  must  now  speak  to  you  of  mis- 
fortune.    My  dear  cousin  has  failed." 

She  followed  these  few  lines  by  a  brief  narrative  Herbert 
had  given  her,  —  neither  seeking  to  extenuate  his  errors,  nor 
excuse  his  rashness,  —  well  knowing  in  her  heart  that  Sir 
Archy  would  regard  the  lesson  thus  conveyed  an  ample 
recompense  for  the  honor  of  a  victory  so  hardly  lost. 

"It  is  to  you  he  looks  for  comfort,  — to  you,  sir,  whom 
his  efforts  were  all  made  to  please,  and  for  whose  praise 
his  weary  nights  and  toilsome  days  were  offered.  You, 
who  know  more  of  the  human  heart  than  I  do,  can  tell  how 
far  so  severe  a  discouragement  may  work  for  good  or  evil 
on  his  future  life;  for  myself,  I  feel  the  even  current  of 
prosperity  is  but  a  sluggish  dream  that  calls  for  no  efforts 
to  stem  its  tide;  and,  were  his  grief  over,  I  'd  rather  rejoice 
that  he  has  found  a  conflict,  because  he  may  now  discover 
he  has  courage  to  meet  it. 

VOL.  I. — 20 


306  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"Even  I,  to  follow  a  theme  so  dispiriting,  —  even  I  grow 
weary  of  pleasure,  and  tire  of  gayety.  The  busy  world  of 
enjoyment  leaves  not  a  moment  free  for  happiness,  and 
already  I  am  longing  to  be  back  in  the  still  valley  of  Glen- 
flesk.  It  is  not  that  Dublin  Is  not  very  brilliant,  or  that 
society  has  less  of  agreeability  than  I  expected,  —  both 
have  exceeded  my  anticipations ;  nor  is  it  that  I  have  not 
been  what  we  should  call  in  France  'successful  '  in  my 
debut^  —  far  from  that,  I  am  the  fashion,  or  rather  half  the 
fashion,  Sybella  dividing  public  favor  with  me.  But, 
somehow,  nobody  contradicts  me  here  ,•  no  one  has  courage 
to  tell  me  I'm  wrong,  no  one  will  venture  to  say,  what  you 
have  often  said,  and  even  ofteuer  looked,  that  'I  talked  of 
what  I  knew  nothing;  '  and,  in  fact,  my  dear  uncle,  every 
one  is  so  very  much  in  love  with  me  that  I  am  beginning 
to  detest  them,  and  would  give  the  world  to  be  once  more 
at  home  before  I  extend  the  hatred  to  myself,  which  I  must 
inevitably  end  by  doing,  if  nobody  anticipates  me  in  the 
sentiment. 

*'You  told  me  I  should  prove  faithless  to  you.  Well,  I 
have  refused,  Heaven  knows  how  many  *  brilliant  offers,' 
for  such  even  the  proposers  called  them.  Generals  of  four- 
score, guardsmen  of  twenty,  dignitaries  in  the  church,  Ser- 
jeants learned  in  the  law,  country  gentlemen  in  hordes,  two 
baronets,  and  one  luckless  viscount  have  asked  for  the 
valueless  hand  that  writes  these  lines ;  and  yet,  —  and  yet, 
my  dear  chevalier,  I  shall  still  write  myself  at  the  bottom 
of  this  page,  'Kate  O'Donoghue.'  I  have  no  doubt  you 
are  very  vain  of  my  constancy,  and  will  be  so  when  you 
read  this ;  and  it  is  right  you  should  be,  for  I  promise  you, 
in  my  rohe^  couleur  de  cerise,  looped  with  white  roses,  and 
my  chapeau  de  paysane,  I  am  a  very  pretty  person  indeed, 
—  at  least,  it  seems  a  point  the  twelve  judges  agree  upon, 
and  the  Master  of  the  Rolls  tells  me  'that  with  such  long 
eyelashes  I  might  lift  my  eyes  very  high  indeed.' 

"And  now,  my  dear,  kind  uncle,  divide  your  sorrow 
between  your  niece  who  is  dying  of  vanity,  and  your  nephew 
who  is  sick  of  grief,  —  continue  your  affection  to  both,  — 
and  believe  me,  in  all  sincerity  of  heart,  your  own  fond 
and  faithful 

"Kate  O'Donoghue. 


FIEST  IMPRESSIONS.  307 

"  I  have  met  Hemsworth,  and,  strange  to  say,  found  him 
both  pleasant  and  agreeable." 

Such  were  the  concluding  lines  of  an  epistle  in  which 
few  who  did  not  possess  Sii*  Archy's  acuteness  could  suc- 
cessfully trace  anything  of  the  real  character  of  the  writer. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

OLD    CHARACTERS    WITH    NEW    FACES. 

At  the  time  we  speak  of,  Clontarf  was  the  fashionable 
watering-place  of  the  inhabitants  of  Dublin;  and,  although 
it  boasted  of  little  other  accommodation  than  a  number  of 
small  thatched  cabins  could  afford,  and  from  which  the 
fishermen  removed  to  give  place  to  their  more  opulent 
guests,  yet  thither  the  great  and  the  wealthy  of  the  capital 
resorted  in  summer  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  a  seaside,  and 
that  not  inferior  one,  the  change  of  life  and  habit  entailed 
by  altered  circumstances  and  more  restricted  spheres  of 
enjoyment. 

If,  with  all  the  aid  of  sunshine  and  blue  water,  waving 
foliage  and  golden  beach,  this  place  had  an  aspect  of 
modest  poverty  in  its  whitened  walls  and  net-covered  gar- 
dens in  summer,  in  winter  its  dreariness  and  desolation 
were  great  indeed.  The  sea  swept  in  long  waves  the  nar- 
row road,  even  to  the  doors  of  the  cabins,  the  muddy  foam 
settling  on  the  window-sills,  and  even  drifting  to  the  very 
roofs;  the  thatch  was  fastened  down  with  strong  ropes, 
assisted  by  oars  and  spars,  to  resist  the  wild  gale  that 
generally  blew  from  the  southeast. 

The  trim  cottages  of  summer  were  now  nothing  but  the 
miserable  hovels  of  the  poor;  their  gardens  waste,  their 
gay  aspect  departed,  —  even  the  stirring  signs  of  life 
seemed  vanished.  Few,  if  any,  of  the  inhabitants  stirred 
abroad,  and,  save  some  muffled  figure  that  moved  past, 
screening  his  face  from  the  beating  storm,  all  was  silent 
and  motionless.  The  little  inn,  which  in  the  summer- 
time was  thronged  from  morning  till  night,  and  from  whose 
open  windows  the  merry  laugh  and  the  jocund  sound  of 
happy  voices  poured,  was  now  fast  shuttered  up,   and  all 


OLD   CHARACTERS   WITH  NEW  FACES.  309 

the  precautions  of  a  voyage  were  taken  against  the  dreaded 
winter;  even  to  the  sign  of  a  gigantic  crab,  rudely  carved 
in  wood  and  painted  red,  everything  was  removed,  and  a 
single  melancholy  dip-candle  burned  in  the  bar,  as  if  keep- 
ing watch  over  the  sleeping  revelry  of  the  place. 

If  such  were  the  gloomy  features  without,  within  doors 
matters  wore  a  more  thriving  aspect.  In  a  little  parlor 
behind  the  bar  a  brisk  fire  was  bm-ning,  before  which 
stood  a  table  neatly  prepared  for  supper;  the  covers  were 
laid  for  two,  but  the  provision  of  wine  displayed  seemed 
suited  to  a  larger  number.  The  flashy-looking  prints  upon 
the  walls  shone  brightly  in  the  rudd}^  blaze;  the  brass 
fender  and  the  glasses  sparkled  in  its  clear  light,  and  even 
to  the  small  keen  eyes  of  Billy  Corcoran,  the  host,  who 
kept  eternally  running  in  and  out,  to  see  all  right,  every- 
thing presented  a  very  cheering  contrast  to  the  bleak  deso- 
lation of  the  night  without. 

It  was  evident  that  Mr.  Corcoran' s  guests  were  behind 
time ;  his  impatience  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  He  walked 
from  the  kitchen  to  the  parlor  and  back  again  without 
ceasing,  now  adding  a  turf  to  the  fire,  now  removing  the 
roasting  chickens  a  little  farther  from  the  blaze,  and  anon 
bending  his  ear  to  listen  if,  perchance,  he  could  catch  the 
sound  of  approaching  wheels.  He  had  sat  down  on  every 
chair  of  the  parlor,  he  had  taken  a  half-glass  out  of  each 
decanter  on  the  table,  he  had  sharpened  every  knife  in 
turn,  and,  in  fact,  resorted  to  every  device  to  cheat  time, 
when  suddenly  the  sound  of  a  carriage  was  heard  on  the 
road,  and  the  next  moment  he  unbarred  the  door  and 
admitted  two  persons,  whose  dripping  hats  and  soaked 
greatcoats  bore  evidence  to  the  downpour  without. 

"Well,  Billy,"  said  the  first  who  entered,  "this  rain  will 
beat  down  the  wind  at  last,  and  we  shall  be  able  to  get 
some  fish  in  the  market." 

"Sorra  bit,  sir,"  said  Billy,  as  he  assisted  the  speaker  to 
remove  his  wet  garments,  leaving  the  other  stranger  to  his 
own  devices.  "The  wind  is  coming  more  round  to  the 
east,  and  I  know  from  the  noise  on  the  Bull  we  '11  have 
plenty  of  it.  I  was  afeard  something  happened  you,  sir; 
you're  an  hour  behind  the  time  you  said  yourself." 


310  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"Very  true, — so  I  am.  I  was  detained  at  a  dinner 
party,  and  my  friend  here  also  kept  me  waiting  a  few 
minutes  for  him." 

"It  was  not  my  fault,"  interposed  the  other;  "I  was 
ready  when  —  " 

"Never  mind,  — it  was  of  no  consequence  whatever;  the 
only  misfortune  was,  we  could  find  no  coach,  and  were 
forced  to  put  up  with  a  car,  and  got  wet  for  our  pains. 
But  the  supper.   Bill, — the  supper." 

"Is  smoking  hot  on  the  table,"  was  the  reply;  and,  as  he 
opened  the  door  into  the  parlor,  the  fact  declared  itself  to 
their  senses. 

The  strangers  were  soon  seated  at  the  meal,  and  like  men 
who  could  relish  its  enjoyment  not  the  less  for  the  merit  of 
what  they  had  quitted  without  doors.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  consume  much  time  in  presenting  them  to  our  readers; 
they  are  both  already  known  to  him.  One  was  Mr.  Hems- 
worth;  the  other  no  less  a  person  than  Lanty  Lawler,  the 
horse-dealer.  One  only  remark  is  necessary.  Familiar  as 
these  characters  already  are,  they  here  appear  in  aspect 
somewhat  different  from  what  they  have  hitherto  exhibited. 
Hemsworth,  no  longer  the  associate  of  fashionable  com- 
pany, had  exchanged  his  silken  deferential  manner  for  an 
air  of  easy  confidence  that  seemed  to  fit  him  even  better; 
Lanty,  on  the  other  hand,  had  lost  all  his  habitual  self- 
possession,  look  abashed  and  sheepish,  and  seemed  for  all 
the  world  as  though  he  were  in  the  hands  of  one  who  could 
dispose  of  his  destiny  as  he  willed  it.  All  the  got-up 
readiness  of  his  wit,  all  his  acquired  frankness,  were  now 
gone,  and  in  their  place  a  timid,  hesitating  manner  that 
bespoke  the  most  abject  fear  and  terror;  it  was  evident, 
too,  that  he  struggled  hard  to  conceal  these  signs  of  trepida- 
tion. He  ate  voraciously  of  all  before  him,  and  endeavored, 
by  the  preoccupation  of  the  table,  to  cover  his  real  senti- 
ments at  the  moment.  He  drank,  too,  freely,  filling  a  large 
goblet  to  the  brim  with  sherry  several  times  during  the 
meal;  nor  was  this  unnoticed  by  Hemsworth,  who  at  last 
interposed,  in  a  calm  but  commanding  tone,  as  he  laid  his 
hand  on  the  decanter. 

"A  pipe  of  it,  if  you  please,  Lanty;  you  may  have  a  whole 


n 


OLD   CHARACTERS  WITH  NEW  FACES.  311 

bank  of  the  Guadalquivir  for  your  own  drinking  at  another 
time,  but  now,  if  you  please,  let  us  have  calm  heads  and 
cool  judgments.  It  is  some  time  since  we  met,  and  it 
may  be  longer  ere  we  have  another  opportunity  like  the 
present." 

"Very  true,  sir,"  said  Lanty,  submissively,  as  he  pushed 
his  untasted  glass  before  him.  ''  It  was  the  wetting  I  was 
afeard  of;  my  clothes  were  soaked  through." 

Hemsworth  paid  no  attention  to  the  excuse,  but  sat  for 
some  minutes  deeply  sunk  in  his  reflections;  then  lifting 
his  head  suddenly,  he  said,  — 

"And  so  these  papers  have  never  been  found?  " 

"Never,  sir.  I  did  my  best  to  get  them.  I  spent  days 
at  the  place,  and  had  others  looking  besides.  I  said  I  'd 
give  five  guineas  —  and  you  know  what  a  reward  that  is 
down  there  —  to  the  man  who  would  bring  them  to  me ;  but 
from  that  hour  to  this  I  never  set  eyes  on  them." 

While  he  was  speaking  these  words,  Hemsworth' s  eyes 
never  turned  from  him.  They  were  fixed  on  him,  not  with 
any  expression  of  severity  or  harshness,  neither  did  the 
glance  indicate  suspicion.  It  was  a  steady,  passionless 
stare,  rather  like  one  seeking  an  explanation  than  prejudging 
a  motive. 

"You  were  quite  certain  that  they  were  the  papers  we 
wanted  ?  " 

"Sure  I  opened  them,  — sure  I  read  the  writing  myself 
when  I  took  them  out  of  the  old  man's  desk." 

"  They  had  better  have  remained  there, "  said  Hemsworth 
to  himself,  but  loud  enough  for  the  other  to  hear.  Then, 
rallying  quickly,  he  added,  "No  matter,  however;  we  have 
evidence  enough  of  another  kind.  There  are  the  letters 
Mark  wrote  to  the  Delegates." 

"I  think  Mr.  Morrissy  has  most  of  them,  sir,"  said 
Lanty,  hesitating;  "he  is  the  man  that  keeps  all  the 
writings." 

"So  he  may  be,  Lanty;  but  you  have  some  of  them  your- 
self. Three  or  four  are  as  good  as  thirty  or  forty,  and  you 
may  have  as  many  as  that  —  ay,  and  here  in  your  pocket, 
too,  this  minute.  Come,  my  worthy  friend,  you  may  cheat 
me  in  horseflesh  whenever   I  *m  fool  enousrh  to   deal  with 


312  THE   O'DOXOGKUE. 

you,  but  at  this  game  I  'm  your  master.  Let  me  see  these 
letters." 

"  How  would  I  have  them,  captain,  at  all  ?  "  said  Lanty, 
imploringly;  "sure  you  know  as  well  as  me  that  I'm  not 
in  the  scheme  at  all." 

"Save  so  far  as  having  a  contract  to  mount  five  hundred 
men  of  the  French  on  their  landing  in  Ireland,  the  money 
for  which  you  have  partly  received,  and  for  which  I  hold 
the  check,  countersigned  by  yourself.  Master  Lanty.  Very 
pretty  evidence  in  a  court  of  justice,  —  more  than  enough 
to  hang  you,   that's  all." 

"There's  many  a  one  sould  a  horse,  and  didn't  know 
what  use  he  was  for,"  replied  Lanty,  half  rudely. 

"Very  true;  but  a  contract  that  stipulates  for  strong 
cattle,  able  to  caiTy  twelve-stone  men  with  full  cavalry 
equipments,  does  not  read  like  an  engagement  to  furnish 
plough-horses."  Then,  altering  his  tone,  he  added,  '"No 
more  of  this,  sir;  I  can't  afford  time  for  such  fencing. 
Show  me  these  letters,  —  show  me  that  you  have  done  some- 
thing to  earn  your  own  indemnity,  or,  by  G — d,  I  '11  let 
them  hang  you  as  I'd  see  them  hang  a  dog." 

Lanty  became  lividly  pale  as  Hemsworth  was  speaking; 
a  slight  con\'Tilsive  tremor  shook  his  lip  for  a  moment,  and 
he  seemed  struggling  to  repress  a  burst  of  passion,  as  he 
held  the  chair  with  either  hand ;  but  he  uttered  not  a  word. 
Hemsworth  leisurely"  drew  forth  his  watch  and  placed  it  on 
the  table  before  him,   saying,  — 

"It  wants  eleven  minutes  of  one  o'clock;  I'll  give  j^ou 
to  that  hour  to  make  up  your  mind,  whether  j^ou  prefer  five 
hundred  pounds  in  your  hand,  or  take  your  place  in  the 
dock  with  the  rest  of  them ;  for,  mark  me,  whether  we  have 
your  evidence  or  not,  they  are  equally  in  our  hands.  It  is 
only  an  economy  of  testimony  I  'm  studying  here,  and  I 
reserve  my  other  blackguards  for  occasions  of  more 
moment." 

The  taunt  would  appear  an  ill-timed  one  at  such  a  minute ; 
but  Hemsworth  knew  well  the  temperament  of  him  he 
addressed,  and  did  not  utter  a  syllable  at  random.  Lanty 
still  preserved  silence,  and  looked  as  though  doggedly  deter- 
mined to  let  the  minutes  elapse  without  speaking ;  his  head 


OLD   CHARACTERS   WITH  NEW   FACES.  313 

slightly  sunk  on  bis  cliest,  bis  eyes  bent  downwards,  he  sat 
perfectly  motionless.  Hemswortb  meanwhile  refilled  his 
glass,  crossed  bis  arms  before  him,  and  seemed  awaiting, 
without  impatience,  the  result  of  the  other's  deliberation. 
At  length  the  hand  approached  the  figure;  it  wanted  but 
about  half  a  minute  of  the  time,  and  Hemsworth,  taking 
up  the  watch  from  the  table,  held  it  before  Lanty's  eyes, 
as  he  said,  — 

"Time  is  nearly  up,  Master  Lawler;  do  you  refuse?  '* 

"I  only  ask  one  condition,"  said  Lanty,  in  a  faint 
whisper. 

"You  shall  make  no  bargains;  the  letters,  or — .  It  is 
too  late  now ;  "  and  with  these  words  he  replaced  his  watch 
in  his  pocket  and  rose  from  the  table. 

Lanty  never  moved  a  muscle,  while  Hemsworth  ap- 
proached the  fireplace  and  rang  the  bell.  In  doing  so,  he 
turned  his  back  to  the  horse-dealer,  but  commanded  a  view 
of  him  through  means  of  the  little  glass  above  the  chimney. 
He  stood  thus  for  a  few  seconds,  when  Lanty,  in  whose 
flashing  eyes  and  darkened  color  inward  rage  was  depicted, 
suddenly  thrust  his  arm  into  the  breast  of  his  coat.  Hems- 
worth turned  round  at  once,  and  seizing  the  arm  in  his 
powerful  grasp,  said,  in  a  cool,  determined  voice,  — 

"No,  no,  Lanty;  I'm  armed  too." 

"It  was  the  pocket-book  I  was  feeling  for,  sir,"  said 
Lanty,  with  a  sickly  effort  at  a  smile,  while  he  drew  forth 
a  black  leather  case,  and  handed  it  towards  Hemsworth. 
"They  are  all  there,  —  seventeen  letters,  —  besides  two 
French  commissions  signed  by  young  Mark,  and  a  receipt 
for  four  hundred  pounds  in  French  gold." 

"You  must  find  it  hard  to  get  bullets  for  those  pistols  I 
gave  you,  Lanty,"  said  Hemsworth,  in  a  tranquil  voice. 
"I  forgot  to  let  you  have  the  bullet-mould  with  them. 
Remind  me  of  it  to-morrow  or  next  day." 

Lanty  muttered  a  faint  "I  will,"  but  looked  the  very 
picture  of  abject  misery  as  he  spoke. 

"Let  me  see  them,  Lanty,"  said  Hemsworth,  in  a  manner 
as  calm  and  unconcerned  as  could  be.  "If  I  don't  mis- 
take, they  are  nearly  a  quarter  of  an  inch  in  the  bore." 

"About  that  same,  sir,'*  replied  Lawler,  while  he  drew 


314  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

forth  the  two  pistols  from  the  same  breast-pocket  he  had 
taken  the  letters. 

Hemsworth  first  examined  one,  and  then  the  other 
leisurely,  passing  the  ramrod  into  each  in  turn,  and  then 
opening  the  pans,  inspected  the  priming,  adjusting  the 
powder  carefully  with  his  finger.  "You  spoil  such  pistols 
as  these  by  loading  with  two  bullets,  Lanty,"  said  he,  as 
he  handed  them  back  to  him.  "  The  bore  is  too  perfect  for 
such  coarse  usage.  Now,  this  is  a  less  delicate  weapon, 
and  will  bear  harder  usage,"  and  he  drew  forth  a  short 
pistol,  containing  four  revolving  barrels,  each  as  wide  as 
the  bore  of  a  musket.  Lanty  gazed  in  astonishment  and 
terror  at  the  murderous  implement,  into  which  the  hand 
fitted  by  a  handle  like  that  of  a  saw.  Hemsworth  played 
the  spring  by  which  the  barrels  moved  with  a  practised 
finger,  and  seemed  to  exult  in  the  expression  of  Lanty' s 
terror  as  he  watched  them.  Then,  quickly  replacing  the 
weapon,  he  resumed,  "  Well,  I  am  glad,  for  your  own  sake, 
that  you  are  more  reasonable.  You  ought  to  know  that  I 
never  place  dependence  on  only  one  man  for  any  single 
service.  Such  would  be  merely  to  play  the  part  of  slave 
instead  of  master.  But,  first  of  all,  how  did  you  become 
possessed  of  these  letters?" 

"I  was  charged  by  Mark  to  deliver  them  to  the  Delegates, 
and  as  they  never  saw  his  handwriting,  I  just  copied  the 
letters,  and  kept  all  the  originals,  so  that  he  has  re- 
ceived his  answers  regularly,  and  never  suspects  what  has 
happened." 

"All  right  so  far.  And  the  younger  brother,  — what  of 
him?" 

"Oh,  he  is  too  much  under  old  M'Nab's  influence  to  be 
caught.  I  would  n't  say  but  that  he 's  a  Protestant  this 
minute." 

"You  appear  to  be  greatly  shocked  at  your  suspicion, 
Lanty,"  said  Hemsworth,  smiling.  "Well,  well;  we  must 
hope  for  the  best.  And  now,  as  to  this  other  fellow:  where 
and  how  can  I  see  him,  — this  Talbot,  I  mean?  " 

"Ay,  that's  the  puzzle,'  replied  Lanty,  with  a  greater 
appearance  of  ease  in  his  manner  than  before.  "You  never 
can  meet  him  when  you  look  for  him;  but  he's  at  your 
elbow  every  day  twenty  times  if  you  don't  want  him." 


OLD   CHARACTERS   WITH  NEW   FACES.  315 

"Could  you  not  manage  a  meeting  for  me  with  him  down 
here,   Lanty?  —  I'll  take  care  of  the  rest." 

"I  don't  think  so;  he's  a  wary  fellow.  He  gave  me  a 
fright  once  or  twice  already,  by  a  word  he  let  drop.  I  am 
not  easy  in  his  company  at  all." 

"False  or  true,  he  would  be  an  immense  service  to  us," 
said  Hemsworth,  musingly.  "If  I  only  could  see  and 
speak  with  him,  I  'd  soon  convince  him  that  he  incurred  no 
risk  himself.  It 's  a  bad  sportsman  shoots  his  decoy  duck, 
Lanty,"  and  he  pinched  his  cheek  good-humoredly  as  he 
spoke.  Lanty  endeavored  to  laugh,  but  the  effort  was  a 
feeble  one.  Meanwhile,  the  host,  now  summoned  for  a 
second  time,  made  his  appearance,  and  by  Hemsworth's 
orders  the  car  was  brought  round  to  the  door;  for,  severe 
as  the  night  was,  he  determined  to  return  to  the  city. 

"You  are  coming  back  to  town,  too,  Lanty?"  said  he,  in 
a  tone  of  inquiry. 

"No,  sir;  I'm  going  to  stop  here  with  Billy,  if  your 
honor  has  no  objection." 

"None  whatever.  Remember  to  let  me  see  you  on 
Tuesday,  when  I  shall  have  everything  in  readiness  for 
your  journey  south;  till  then,  good-bye."  So  saying,  and 
handing  Corcoran  two  guineas  in  gold,  for  he  paid  liberally, 
Hemsworth  mounted  the  car  and  drove  off. 

Lanty  looked  after  him  till  the  darkness  shut  out  the 
view,  and  then,  buttoning  his  rough  coat  tightly  around  his 
throat,  set  out  himself  towards  town,  muttering,  as  he  went, 
*'I  wish  it  was  the  last  I  was  ever  to  see  of  you." 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

SOME    HINTS    ABOUT    HARRY    TALBOT. 

We  must  beg  of  our  reader  to  retrace  his  steps  once  more 
to  the  valley  of  Gleuflesk,  but  only  for  a  fleeting  moment. 
When  last  we  left  Carriguacurra  it  was  at  night;  the  party 
were  at  supper  in  the  old  tower,  and  Kerry  stood  outside, 
rehearsing  to  himself  for  the  tenth  time  the  manner  in  which 
he  should  open  his  communication.  The  sound  of  Mark's 
voice,  raised  above  its  ordinary  pitch,  warned  him  that  his- 
mission  might  not  be  without  danger,  if  perchance  anything 
on  his  part  might  offend  the  youth.  None  knew  better  than 
Kerry  the  violent  temper  of  the  young  O'Donoghue,  and 
how  little  restraint  he  ever  put  upon  any  scheme  he  thought 
of  to  vent  his  humor  on  him  who  crossed  him.  It  was  an 
account  of  debtor  and  creditor  then  with  him  how  he  should 
act;  on  the  one  side  lay  the  penalties,  on  the  other  the 
rewards  of  his  venture :  how  was  he  to  escape  the  one  and 
secure  the  other?  A  moment's  reflection  suggested  the 
plan. 

"I'll  not  go  in,  divil  a  step,  but  I  '11  tell  I  was  convarsin* 
with  them  this  half-hour,  and  that  the  rope  and  the  bit  of 
lead  is  a  new  way  they  do  have  for  catching  mermaids  and 
other  f aymale  fishes  in  the  bay ;  and  sure  if  I  only  say  that 
there  's  an  Act  of  Parlimint  agin  doin'  it,  she  '11  not  only 
believe  it  all,  but  she  '11  keep  the  saycret  to  her  dying  bed." 
And  with  this  profound  reflection  on  Mrs.  Branaghan's 
character,  and  a  face  of  very  well  got  up  surprise,  Kerry 
re-entered  the  kitchen  to  announce  his  discovery. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  dwell  on  the  scene  that  fol- 
lowed; we  have  merely  adverted  to  the  fact,  inasmuch  as 
that  on  the  trivial  circumstances  of  Kerry's  resolve  depended 
the  discovery  of  a  plot  which,   if  once  known  to  M'Xab, 


SOME   HINTS  ABOUT  HARKY   TALBOT.  317 

would  immediately  have  been  communicated  to  the  Govern- 
ment. The  fates  willed  it  otherwise;  and  when  the  party 
separated  in  the  old  tower,  Sir  Archy  was  as  little  satislied 
concerning  Talbot's  character  as  ever,  and  as  eager  to 
ascertain  whence  and  wherefore  he  came,  and  with  what 
intention  he  had  made  Mark's  acquaintance.  With  many 
a  wily  scheme  for  the  morrow,  the  old  man  went  to  rest, 
determining  to  spare  no  pains  to  unravel  the  mystery;  a 
fruitless  resolve  after  all,  for  when  day  broke  Talbot  and 
Mark  were  already  away,  many  miles  on  the  road  to 
Dublin. 

The  O'Donoghue's  first  act,  on  completing  his  arrange- 
ments with  Swaby,  was  to  place  at  Mark's  disposal  a  sum 
of  five  hundred  pounds,  an  amount  far  greater  than  ever  the 
young  man  had  at  any  time  possessed  in  his  life.  Talbot, 
to  whom  the  circumstance  was  told  by  Mark,  readily  per- 
suaded him  to  visit  Dublin,  not  merely  for  the  pleasures 
and  amusements  of  the  capital,  but  that  he  might  person- 
ally be  made  known  to  the  Delegates,  and  see  and  confer 
with  those  who  were  the  directors  of  the  threatened  rebel- 
lion. Talbot  understood  perfectly  the  kind  of  flattery 
which  would  succeed  with  the  youth,  and  by  allusion  to  his 
ancient  lineage,  his  more  than  noble  blood,  the  rights  to 
which  he  was  entitled,  and  to  which  he  would  unquestion- 
ably be  restored,  not  only  stimulated  his  ardor  in  the  cause, 
but  bound  him  in  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  all  who  encouraged 
him  to  engage  in  it. 

Mark's  character,  whatever  its  faults,  was  candid  and 
frank  in  everything  He  made  no  secret  to  his  new  friend 
of  his  present  unhappiness,  nor  did  he  conceal  that  an 
unpaid  debt  of  vengeance  with  respect  to  young  Travers 
weighed  heavily  on  his  spirits.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his 
life  he  had  tasted  the  bitterness  of  an  insult,  and  it  worked 
like  a  deadly  poison  within  him,  sapping  the  springs  of  his 
health,  and  rendering  miserable  the  hours  of  his  solitude. 
The  thought  rarely  left  him  day  or  night,  —  how  was  he  to 
wipe  out  this  stain?  When  Talbot,  therefore,  spoke  of  a 
visit  to  the  capital,  Mark  cheerfully  acceded,  but  rather 
from  a  secret  hope  that  some  opportunity  might  arise  to 
gratify  this  cherished  passion  than  from  any  desire  of  wit- 


318  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

nessing  the  splendor  of  the  metropolis;  and  while  the  one 
pictured  the  glittering  scenes  of  festive  enjoyment  to  which 
youth  and  money  are  the  passports,  the  other  darkly  rumi- 
nated on  the  chances  of  meeting  his  enemy  and  provoking 
him  to  a  duel. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day  after  they  left 
Carrignacurra  that  they  drew  near  the  capital,  and  after  a 
promise  from  Mark  that  in  everything  he  should  be  guided 
by  his  friend,  nor  take  any  step  without  his  counsel  and 
advice,   they  both  entered  the  city. 

"You  see,  Mark,"  said  Talbot,  as,  after  passing  through 
some  of  the  wider  and  better-lighted  thoroughfares,  they 
approached  a  less  frequented  and  more  gloomy  part  of  the 
town,  —  "you  see,  Mark,  that  the  day  is  not  come  when  we 
should  occupy  the  place  of  honor.  An  humble  and  quiet 
hotel  will  best  suit  us  for  the  present;  but  the  hour  is  not 
very  distant,  my  boy,  when  the  proudest  mansion  of  the 
capital  will  throw  wide  its  doors  to  receive  us.  The  Saxon 
has  but  a  short  tenure  of  it  now." 

"I  don't  see  any  reason  for  secrecy,"  said  Mark,  half 
doggedly.  "We  have  good  names,  and  a  good  purse:  why, 
then,  must  we  betake  ourselves  to  this  gloomy  and  desolate 
quarter  ?  " 

"Because  I  am  the  guide,"  said  Talbot,  laughing;  "and, 
if  that 's  not  reason  enough,  that 's  the  only  one  I  will  give 
you  just  now.  But  come,  here  we  are,  and  I  do  not  think 
you  will  complain  of  your  entertainment."  And,  as  he 
spoke,  the  carriage  entered  the  spacious  court-yard  of  an 
old-fashioned  inn,  which,  standing  in  Thomas  Street,  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  river  through  one  of  the  narrow 
streets  leading  down  to  the  quay. 

"This  was  the  fashionable  house,  some  fifty  years  back," 
said  Talbot,  as  he  assisted  his  friend  to  alight;  "and 
though  the  heyday  of  its  youth  is  over,  there  are  many 
generous  qualities  in  its  good  old  age,  —  not  your  father's 
cellar  can  boast  a  better  bottle  of  Burgundy." 

Talbot's  recommendation  was  far  from  being  unmerited* 
The  "Black  Jack,"  as  the  inn  was  named,  was  a  most  com- 
fortable house  of  the  old  school,  with  large,  low-ceilinged 
rooms,  wide  stairs,  and  spacious  corridors;  the  whole  fur- 


SOME   HINTS   ABOUT   HARRY  TALBOT.  319 

nished  in  a  style  which,  though  far  from  pretending  to 
elegance  or  fashion,  possessed  strong  claims  for  the  tired 
traveller  seeking  rest  and  repose.  Here,  then,  our  young 
travellers  alighted;  Talbot  being  received  with  all  the  cour- 
teous urbanity  due  to  an  old  acquaintance,  the  landlord 
himself  appearing  to  do  the  honors  of  the  house,  and  wel- 
come a  valued  guest. 

'•  We  must  get  our  host,  Billy  Crossley,  to  sup  with  us, 
Mark.  No  one  can  tell  us  so  much  of  how  matters  are 
doing  here;  for,  however  it  happens,  Billy  knows  all  the 
gossip  of  the  day:  fashionable,  political,  or  sporting,  he 
keeps  himself  up  to  what  is  going  forward  everywhere." 
And  so  saying,  Talbot  at  once  hastened  after  the  landlord 
to  secure  his  company  for  the   evening. 

Billy  was  somewhat  fastidious  about  bestowing  his 
agreeability  in  general,  but  on  the  present  occasion  he 
acceded  at  once;  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  the  three 
were  seated  at  a  meal  which  would  not  have  disgraced  an 
hotel  of  more  pretentious  exterior,  Mr,  Crossley  doing  the 
honors  of  the  table,  like  a  host  entertaining  his  friends. 

"I  scarcely  had  expected  to  see  you  so  soon,  Mr.  Talbot," 
said  he,  when  the  servants  had  left  the  room  and  the  party 
drew  round  the  fire.  "They  told  me  you  would  pass  the 
"winter  in  the  country." 

"  So  I  had  intended,  Billy ;  but  as  good  luck  would  have 
it,  I  made  an  acquaintance  in  the  south,  which  changed 
my  plans, — my  friend,  Mr.  O'Donoghue  here;  and  as  he 
had  never  seen  the  capital,  and  knew  nothing  of  your  gay 
doings,  I  thought  I  'd  just  take  a  run  back,  and  show  him 
at  least  the  map  of  the  land." 

"My  service  to  you,  sir,"  said  Billy,  bowing  to  Mark; 
*'  it  would  be  hard  to  have  got  a  better  guide  than  you  have 
in  Master  Harry.  I  can  assure  you,  so  far  as  wickedness 
goes,  he  's  a  match  for  anything  here,  —  from  the  Royal 
Barracks  to  Trinity  College." 

"Flattery,  gross  flattery,  Bill.  I  was  your  own  pupil, 
and  you  can't  help  partiality." 

"You  are  a  most  favorable  specimen  of  private  tuition, 
there's  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Crossley,  laughing;  "and  I 
have  reason  to  be  proud  of  jou.     Did  Mr.  O'Donoghue 


320  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

ever  hear  of  your  clearing  out  Hancey  Hennessy  at  hazard, 
—  the  fellow  that  carried  the  loaded  dice?" 

"Have  done,  Bill.     None  of  these  absurd  stories  now." 

"  Nor  what  a  trick  you  played  Corny  Mehan  at  the  spring 
meeting  with  the  roan  cob  that  knew  how  to  limp  when  you 
wanted  him?  —  as  great  a  devil  as  himself,  Mr.  O'Dono- 
ghue.  You  'd  swear  the  beast  had  a  bad  blood  spavin  if 
you  saw  him  move,  and  he  all  the  time  a  three-quarter  bred 
horse,  without  a  stain  or  a  blemish  about  him." 

Talbot  seemed  for  a  second  or  two  somewhat  uneasy  at 
these  familiar  reminiscences  of  his  friend  Crossley,  not 
knowing  precisely  how  Mark  might  take  them;  but  when 
he  saw  that  a  hearty  laugh  was  the  reception  they  met  with, 
he  joined  in  the  mirth  as  freely  as  the  others. 

"The  best  of  all  was  the  Wicklow  steeple-chase;  sorrow 
doubt  about  it,  that  was  good  fun?  "  and  Crossley  laughed 
till  his  eyes  streamed  again  with  the  emotion. 

"You  must  tell  me  that,"  said  Mark. 

"It  was  just  this:  Mister  Henry  there  had  a  wager  with 
Captain  Steevens,  of  the  staff,  that  he  'd  reach  the  course 
before  him,  each  starting  at  the  same  moment  from  Quin's 
door,  at  Bray.  Well,  what  does  he  do  but  bribes  one  of 
the  boys  to  let  him  ride  postilion  to  Steevens' s  chaise, 
because  that  way  he  was  sure  to  win  his  wager.  All  went 
right.  The  blue  jacket  and  boots  fitted  him  neatly,  —  they 
were  both  new,  got  on  purpose  for  the  day;  and  Mr. 
Talbot  lay  snug  in  the  stable,  waiting  for  the  chaise  to  be 
ordered  round,  when  down  comes  the  word,  'Number  four, 
two  bays,  you  're  wanted; '  and  up  he  jumps  into  the  saddle, 
and  trots  round  to  the  door,  afraid  of  his  life  to  look  round, 
and  keeping  his  chin  sunk  down  in  his  cravat  to  hide  his 
face.  He  never  once  looked  back,  but  let  the  boys  harness 
the  cattle  without  saying  a  word. 

"* My  lord  says  you're  to  drive  slow,'  said  one  of  the 
boys. 

"He  looked  round,  and  what  did  he  see  but  an  old  man 
in  the  chaise  with  a  horseshoe  wig,  and  in  the  full  dress  of 
a  bishop. 
,  "'Who  is  he  at  all?'  said  Talbot. 

"'The  Bishop  of  Cloyne,'  whispered  the  boy;  'he  's  going 
up  to  the  levee.' 


SOME   HINTS  ABOUT  HARRY  TALBOT.  321 

"  'By  my  conscieuce  he  is  not,*  said  Talbot;  for  at  that 
momeut  he  spied  Steevens  starting  from  the  door  at  a 
round  trot,  and  with  that  he  turned  the  bishop's  horses 
sharp  round,  laid  the  whip  heavily  over  them,  and  took  the 
lead  towards  Wicklow. 

"Never  such  cries  were  heard  as  the  bishop's.  Some 
say  that  he  swore  hard,  but  it  isn't  true;  he  prayed,  and 
begged,  and  shouted,  —  but  no  use.  Talbot  gave  them  the 
steel  at  every  stride,  and  after  a  long  slapping  gallop,  he 
drew  up  at  the  stand-house,  with  a  cheer  that  shook  the 
course;'  and  a  fine  sight  it  was  to  see  the  little  man  in  the 
lawn  sleeves  stepping  out,  his  face  red  with  shame  and 
passion. 

"'Twelve  miles  in  forty- two  minutes,  my  lord,'  said 
Talbot,  showing  his  watch;  'hope  your  lordship  won't 
forget  the  boy.'  " 

If  Mark  O'Donoghue  enjoyed  heartily  the  story,  he  was 
not  the  less  surprised  that  Harry  Talbot  was  the  hero  of  it, 
—  all  his  previous  knowledge  of  that  gentleman  leading 
him  to  a  very  different  estimate  of  his  taste  and  pursuits. 
Indeed,  he  only  knew  Talbot  from  his  own  lips,  and  from 
them  he  learned  to  regard  him  as  the  emissary  despatched 
by  the  Irish  party  in  France  to  report  on  the  condition  of 
the  insurgents  in  Ireland,  and,  if  necessary,  to  make  prep- 
arations for  the  French  landing  on  the  Irish  shores.  Mark 
could  not  well  understand  how  any  one  charged  with  such 
a  mission  could  have  either  wasted  his  time  or  endangered 
his  safety  by  any  ridiculous  adventures,  and  did  not  scruple 
to  show  his  astonishment  at  the  circumstance. 

Talbot  smiled  significantly  at  the  remark,  and  exchanged 
a  glance  with  Crossley,   while  he  answered,  — 

"  Placed  in  such  a  position  as  I  have  been  for  some  years, 
Mark,  many  different  parts  have  been  forced  upon  me ;  and 
I  have  often  found  that  there  is  no  such  safe  mask  against 
detection  as  following  out  the  bent  of  one's  humor  in  cir- 
cumstances of  difficulty.  An  irresistible  impulse  to  play 
the  fool,  even  when  high  interests  were  at  stake,  has  saved 
me  more  than  once  from  detection ;  and  from  habit  I  have 
acquired  a  kind  of  address  at  the  practice,  that  with  the 
world  passes  for  cleverness.     And  so,  in  turn,  I  have  been 

VOL.  I.  —  21 


322  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

an  actor,  a  smuggler,  a  French  officer,  an  Irish  refugee,  a 
sporting  character,  a  man  of  pleasure,  and  a  man  of  in- 
trigue ;  and  however  such  features  may  have  blended  them- 
selves into  my  true  character,  my  real  part  has  remained 
undetected.  Master  Crossley  here  might  furnish  a  hint  or 
two  towards  it;  but  —  but,  as  Peachem  says,  'we  could 
hang  one  another  '  —  eh,   Bill  ?  " 

A  nod  and  a  smile,  more  grave  than  gay,  was  Crossley's 
answer,  and  a  silence  ensued  on  all  sides.  There  was  a 
tone  of  seriousness,  even  through  the  levity  of  what  Talbot 
said,  very  unlike  his  ordinary  manner;  and  Mark  began, 
for  the  first  time,  to  feel  that  he  knew  very  little  about  his 
friend.  The  silence  continued  unbroken  for  some  time; 
for  while  Mark  speculated  on  the  various  interpretations 
Talbot's  words  might  bear,  Talbot  himself  was  reflecting 
on  what  he  had  just  uttered.  There  is  a  very  strange,  but 
not  wholly  unaccountable,  tendency  in  men  of  subtle  minds 
to  venture  near  enough  to  disclosures  to  awaken  the  sus- 
picions without  satisfying  the  curiosity  of  others.  The 
dexterity  with  which  they  can  approach  danger,  yet  not 
incur  it,  is  an  exercise  they  learn  to  pride  themselves  upon; 
and  as  the  Indian  guides  his  canoe  through  the  dangerous 
rapids  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  —  now  bending  to  this  side  and 
to  that;  each  moment  in  peril,  but  ever  calm  and  col- 
lected, —  so  do  they  feel  all  the  excitement  of  hazard  in  the 
game  of  address.  Under  an  impulse  of  this  kind  was  it 
that  Talbot  spoke,  and  the  unguarded  freedom  of  his  man- 
ner showed,  even  to  so  poor  an  observer  as  Mark,  that  the 
words  convej'ed  a  hidden  meaning. 

"And  our  gay  city  of  Dublin,  — what  of  it,  Billy?"  said 
he,  at  length  rallying  from  his  mood  of  thought,  as  he 
nodded  his  head,   and  drank  to  Crossley. 

"Pretty  much  as  you  have  always  known  it.  *A  short 
life  and  a  merry  one,'  seems  the  adage  in  favor  here. 
Every  one  spending  his  money  and  character  — " 

"Like  gentlemen.  Bill, — that's  the  phrase,"  interrupted 
Talbot;  "and  a  very  comprehensive  term  it  is,  after  alL 
But  what  is  the  Parliament  doing?" 

"Voting  itself  into  Government  situations." 

*'And  the  Viceroy?  " 


SOME  HINTS   ABOUT  HARRY  TALBOT.  323 

"Snubbing  the  Parliament." 

*'Aud  the  Government  in  England?" 

*' Snubbing  the  Viceroy." 

"Well,  they  are  all  employed,  at  least;  and,  as  the 
French  say,  that  's  always  something.  And  who  are  the 
play-men  now  ?  " 

"The  old  set,  — Tom  Whaley  and  Lord  Drogheda;  your 
old  friend  Giles  Daxon;  Sandy  Moore  — " 

"Ah,  what  of  Sandy?  They  told  me  he  won  heavily 
at  the  October  races." 

"So  he  did ;  beggared  the  whole  club  at  hazard,  and 
was  robbed  of  the  money  the  night  after,  when  coming  up 
through  Naas." 

''Ha!  I  never  heard  of  that,  Billy.  Let  us  hear  all 
about  it." 

"It's  soon  told,  sir.  Sandy,  who  never  tries  economy 
till  he  has  won  largely,  and  is  reckless  enough  of  money 
when  on  the  verge  of  ruin,  heard,  on  leaving  the  course, 
that  a  strange  gentleman  was  waiting  to  get  some  one  to 
join  him  in  a  chaise  up  to  Dublin.  Sandy  at  once  sent  the 
waiter  to  open  the  negotiations,  which  were  soon  concluded, 
and  the  stranger  appeared,  —  a  fat,  unwieldy-looking  old 
fellow,  with  a  powdered  wig  and  green  goggles,  —  not  a 
very  sporting  style  of  travelling  companion ;  but  no  matter 
for  that,  he  had  a  dark  chestnut  mare  with  him  that  looked 
like  breeding,  and  with  strength  enough  for  any  weight  over 
a  country. 

"  'She  '11  follow  the  chaise;  my  son  taught  her  that  trick,' 
said  the  old  fellow,  as  he  hobbled  out  of  the  inn,  and  took 
his  place  in  the  carriage. 

"Well,  in  jumped  Sandy,  all  his  pockets  bursting  with 
guineas,  and  a  book  of  notes  crammed  into  his  hat,  very 
happy  at  his  adventure,  but  prouder  of  saving  half  the 
posting  than  all  besides. 

"  'Keep  to  your  ten  miles  an  hour,  my  lad,  or  not  a  six- 
pence,' said  the  old  gentleman;  and  he  drew  his  nightcap 
over  his  eyes,  and  was  soon  snoring  away  as  sound  as 
need  be. 

"That  was  the  last  was  seen  of  him,  however;  for  when 
the  postilion  drew  up  for  fresh  horses  at   Carrick's,  they 


32^  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

found  Sandy  alone  in  the  chaise,  with  his  hands  tied 
behind  him,  and  his  mouth  gagged.  His  companion  and 
the  dark  chestnut  were  off,  and  all  the  winnings  along 
with  them." 

"Cleverly  done,  by  Jove! "  cried  Talbot,  in  an  ecstas}^  of 
admiration. 

"What  a  contemptible  fellow  your  friend  Sandy  must 
be!"  exclaimed  Mark,  in  the  same  breath.  "Man  to  man, 
—  I  can't  conceive  the  thing  possible." 

"A  bold  fellow,  well  armed,  Mark,"  observed  Talbot, 
gravely,  "might  do  the  deed,  and  Sandy  be  no  coward  after 
all." 

Chatting  in  this  wise,  the  first  evening  was  spent ;  and 
if  Mark  was,  at  times,  disposed  to  doubt  the  morality  of 
his  new  friend,  he  was  very  far  from  questioning  his  knowl- 
edge of  mankind.  His  observations  were  ever  shrewd  and 
caustic,  and  his  views  of  life  those  of  one  who  looked  at  the 
world  with  a  scrutinizing  glance ;  and  although  the  young 
O'Donoghue  would  gladly  have  seen  in  his  young  companion 
some  traces  of  the  enthusiasm  he  himself  experienced  ni  the 
contemplated  rising,  he  felt  convinced  that  a  cooler  judg- 
ment, and  a  more  calculating  head  than  his,  were  indispen- 
sable requisites  to  a  cause  beset  with  so  many  dangers.  He, 
therefore,  implicitly  yielded  himself  to  Talbot's  guidance, 
resolving  not  to  go  anywhere,  nor  see  any  one,  even  his 
brother,  save  with  his  knowledge  and  consent. 

If  the  scenes  into  which  Talbot  introduced  Mark  O'Don- 
oghue were  not  those  of  fashionable  life,  they  were  certainly 
as  novel  and  exciting  to  one  so  young  and  inexperienced. 
The  taverns  resorted  to  by  young  men  of  fashion,  the  haunts 
of  sporting  characters,  the  tennis-court,  but,  more  frequently 
still,  the  houses  where  high  play  was  carried  on,  —  he  was  all 
familiar  with,  knew  the  precise  type  of  company  at  each, 
and  not  a  little  of  their  private  history ;  still,  it  seemed  as  if 
he  himself  were  but  little  known,  and  rather  received  for  the 
recommendation  of  good  address  and  engaging  manners  than 
from  any  circumstance  of  previous  acquaintance.  Mark 
was  astonished  at  this,  as  well  as  that,  although  now  several 
weeks  in  Dublin,  Talbot  had  made  no  advance  towards  intro- 
ducing him  to  the  leading  members  of  the  insurgent  party. 


SOME   HINTS  ABOUT   HARRY  TALBOT.  825 

aud  latterly  had  even  but  very  rarely  alluded  to  the  prospect 
of  the  contemplated  movement. 

The  young  O'Donoghue  was  not  one  to  harbor  any  secret 
thought  long  unuttered  in  his  breast,  and  he  briefly  expressed 
to  Talbot  his  surprise  —  almost  his  dissatisfaction  —  at  the 
life  they  Avere  leading.  At  first,  Talbot  endeavored  to  laugh 
off  such  inquiries,  or  turn  them  aside  by  some  passing 
pleasantry ;  but  when  more  closely  pressed,  he  avowed  that 
his  present  part  was  a  duty  imposed  upon  him  by  his  friends 
in  France,  who  desired,  above  all  things,  to  ascertain  the 
feeling  among  young  men  of  family  and  fortune  in  the 
metropolis  how  they  really  felt  affected  towards  England, 
and  with  what  success,  should  French  republicanism  fail  to 
convert  them,  would  the  fascinations  of  Parisian  elegance 
and  vice  be  thi'own  around  them. 

"  There  must  be  bribes  for  all  temperaments,  Mark,'* 
said  he,  at  the  end  of  a  very  lengthened  detail  of  his  views 
and  stratagems.  "  Glory  is  enough  for  such  as  you,  and 
happily  you  can  have  wherewithal  to  satisfy  a  craving 
appetite ;  but  some  must  be  bought  by  gold,  some  by 
promises  of  vengeance  upon  others,  some  by  indemnities  for 
past  offences,  and  not  a  few  by  the  vague  hope  of  change, 
which  disappointed  men  ever  regard  as  for  the  better.  To 
sound  the  depths  of  all  such  motives  is  part  of  my  mission 
here,  and  hence  I  have  rigidly  avoided  those  by  whom  I 
am  more  than  slightly  known;  but,  in  a  week  or  two,  I 
shall  exchange  this  part  for  another,  and  then,  Mark,  we 
shall  mix  in  the  gayer  world  of  the  squares,  where  your 
fair  cousin  shines  so  brilliantly.  Meanwhile,  have  a  little 
patience  with  me,  and  suffer  me  to  seem  sometimes  incon- 
sistent, that  I  may  be  least  so  in  reality.  I  see  you  are  not 
satisfied  with  me,  Mark,  and  I  am  sorry  to  incur  a  friend's 
reproach,  even  for  a  brief  season  ;  but  come  —  I  make  you  a 
pledge.  To-day  is  the  12th;  in  five  days  more  the  Viceroy 
gives  his  St.  Patrick's  ball,  at  which  I  am  to  meet  one  of 
our  confederates.  You  seem  surprised  at  this ;  but  where 
can  man  speak  treason  so  safely  as  under  the  canopy  of  the 
throne  ?  " 

"  But  how  do  you  mean  to  go  there?  You  do  not  surely 
expect  an  invitation?  " 


326  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

''Of  course  not;  but  I  shall  go  notwithstanding,  and  you 
with  me.  Ay,  Mark,  never  frown  and  shake  your  head. 
This  same  ball  is  a  public  assembly,  to  which  all  presented 
at  the  levee  are  eligible,  without  any  bidding  or  invitation. 
Who  is  to  say  that  Harry  Talbot  and  Mark  O'Donoghue 
have  not  paid  their  homage  to  mock  royalty?  If  you  mean 
that  there  is  some  danger  in  the  step,  I  agree  with  you  there 
is ;  but  you  are  not  the  man,  I  take  it,  to  flinch  on  that 
account." 

This  adroit  stroke  of  Talbot's  settled  the  matter,  and 
Mark  felt  ashamed  to  offer  any  objection  to  a  course  which, 
however  disinclined  to,  he  now  believed  was  accompanied 
by  a  certain  amount  of  peril. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A    PRESAGE    OF    DANGER. 

When  the  long-wished-for  evening  drew  nigh  in  which  Tal- 
bot had  pledged  himself  to  reveal  to  Mark  the  circumstan- 
ces of  their  enterprise,  and  to  make  him  known  to  those 
concerned  in  the  plot,  his  manner  became  flurried  and  ex- 
cited ;  he  answered,  when  spoken  to,  with  signs  of  impa- 
tience, and  seemed  so  engrossed  by  his  own  thoughts  as 
to  be  unable  to  divert  his  attention  from  them.  Mark,  in 
general  the  reverse  of  a  shrewd  observer,  perceived  this, 
and  attributing  it  to  the  heavy  losses  he  had  latterly  in- 
curred at  play,  forbore  in  any  way  to  notice  the  circum- 
stance, and  from  his  silence  Talbot  became  probably  more 
indifferent  to  appearances,  and  placed  less  restraint  on  his 
conduct.  He  drank,  too,  more  freely  than  was  his  wont, 
and  appeared  like  one  desirous  by  any  means  to  rid  him- 
self of  some  unwelcome  reflections. 

"It  is  almost  time  to  dress,  Mark,"  said  he,  with  an 
effort  to  seem  easy  and  unconcerned.  "  Let  us  have  an- 
other flask  of  Burgundy  before  we  go." 

"I'll  have  no  more  wine  ;  nor  you,  if  you  will  be  advised 
by  me,  either,"  said  Mark,  gravely. 

"Ha!  then  you  would  imply  I  have  drunk  too  much 
already,  Mark?  Not  far  wrong  there,  perhaps,  and  under 
ordinary  circumstances  such  would  be  the  case ;  but  there 
are  times  when  the  mind,  like  the  body,  demands  double 
nourishment,  and  with  me  wine  strengthens,  never  confuses 
thought.  Do  you  know,  Mark,  that  I  have  a  presentiment 
of  some  evil  before  me; — whence,  and  in  what  shape  it 
is  to  come,  I  cannot  tell  you ;  but  I  feel  it  as  certain  as  if 
it  had  been  revealed  to  me." 

"You  are  despondent  about  our  prospects,"  said  Mark, 
gloomily. 


328  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Talbot  made  no  answer,  but  leaned  his  head  on  the  chim- 
ney-piece, and  seemed  buried  in  deep  thought ;  then,  recov- 
ering himself,  he  said,  in  a  low  but  distinct  accent,  — 

"  Did  you  take  notice  of  a  fellow  at  the  tennis-court 
the  other  day,  who  stood  beside  me  all  the  time  I  w^as  set- 
tling with  the  marker?  Oh !  I  forgot,  —  you  were  not  there. 
Well,  there  was  such  a  one,  —  a  flashy-looking,  vulgar  fellow, 
with  that  cast  of  countenance  that  betokens  shi*ewdness  and 
cunning.  I  met  him  yesterday  in  the  Park,  and  this  even- 
ing, as  I  came  to  dinner,  I  saw  him  talking  to  the  land- 
lord's nephew,  in  the  hall." 

"Well,  and  what  of  all  that?  If  any  one  should  keep 
account  of  where  and  how  often  he  had  seen  either  of  us, 
this  week  past,  might  he  not  conjure  up  suspicions  fully 
as  strong  as  yours?  Let  us  begin  to  take  fright  at  shad- 
ows, and  we  shall  make  but  a  sorry  hand  of  it  when  real 
dangers  approach  us." 

"  The  shadows  are  the  warnings,  Mark,  and  the  wise  man 
never  neglects  a  warning." 

"He  who  sees  thunder  in  every  dark  cloud  above  him  is 
but  the  fool  of  his  ow^n  fears,"  said  Mark,  rudely,  and 
walked  towards  the  window.  "Is  that  anything  like  your 
friend,  Talbot?"  added  he,  as  he  beheld  the  dark  outline 
of  a  figure  which  seemed  standing  intently  looking  up  at 
the  window. 

"The  very  fellow!"  cried  Talbot;  for  at  the  moment  a 
passing  gleam  of  light  fell  upon  the  figure,  and  marked  it 
out  distinctly. 

"There  is  something  about  him  I  can  half  recognize 
myself,"  said  Mark;  "but  he  is  so  muflfled  up  with  great- 
coat and  cravat,  I  cannot  clearly  distinguish  him." 

"Indeed!  Do,  for  Heaven's  sake,  think  of  where  you 
saw  him,  and  when,  Mark ;  for  I  own  my  anxiety  about 
him  is  more  than  common." 

"  I'll  soon  find  out  for  you,"  said  Mark,  suddenly  seizing 
his  hat ;  —  but  at  the  same  instant  the  door  opened,  and  a 
waiter  appeared. 

"There's  a  gentleman  below  stairs,  ]Mr.  Talbot,  would 
be  glad  to  speak  a  few  words  with  you." 

Talbot   motioned,    by    an    almost    imperceptible    gesture, 


A  PRESAGE   OF  DANGER.  329 

that  Mark  should  retire  into  the  adjoining  room ;  and  then, 
approaching  the  waiter,  asked,  in  a  low,  cautious  voice,  if 
the  stranger  were  known  to  him. 

"No,  sir,  —  never  saw  him  before.  He  seems  like  one 
from  the  country ;  Mr.  Crossley  says  he  's  from  the  south." 

"Show  him  up,"  said  Talbot,  hurriedly;  and,  as  the 
waiter  left  the  room,  he  seated  himself  in  his  chair,  in  an 
attitude  of  well-assumed  carelessness  and  ease.  This  was 
scarcely  done,  when  the  stranger  entered,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

"  Good  evening  to  you,  Mr.  Talbot.  I  hope  I  see  your 
honor  well,"  said  he,  in  an  accent  of  very  unmistakable 
Kerry  Doric. 

"Good  evening  to  you,  friend,"  replied  Talbot.  "My 
memory  is  not  so  good  as  yours,  or  I  'd  call  you  by  your 
name  also." 

"I'm  Lanty  Lawler,  sir,  —  that  man  that  sold  your  honor 
the  dark  chestnut  mare  down  in  the  county  Kerry  last  winter. 
I  was  always  wishing  to  see  your  honor  again,  by  reason  of 
that  same." 

' '  How  so  ?  "  said  Talbot,  getting  suddenly  paler,  but  with 
no  other  appearance  of  emotion  in  his  manner.  "  Was  not 
our  contract  honestly  concluded  at  the  time?" 

"  It  was,  sir,  —  there 's  no  doubt  of  it.  Your  honor  paid 
like  a  gentleman,  and  in  goold  besides ;  but  that 's  just  the 
business  I  come  about  here.  It  was  French  money  you  gave 
me,  and  I  got  into  trouble  about  it,  —  some  saying  that  I  was 
a  spy,  and  others  making  out  that  I  was,  maybe,  worse,  and 
so  I  thought  I  would  n't  pass  any  more  of  it  till  I  seen  your- 
self, and  maybe  you  'd  change  it  for  me." 

While  he  was  speaking,  Talbot's  eye  never  wandered  from 
him,  —  not  fixed,  indeed,  with  any  seeming  scrutiny,  but  still 
intently  watching  every  play  of  his  features. 

"  You  told  me  at  the  time,  however,  that  French  gold 
w^as  just  as  convenient  to  you  as  English,"  said  he,  smiling 
good-humoredly,  "  and  from  the  company  I  met  you  in,  I 
found  no  difficulty  in  believing  you." 

"  The  times  is  changed,  sir,"  said  Lanty,  sighing.  "  God 
help  us! — we  must  do  the  best  we  can." 

This  evasive  answer  seemed  perfectly  to  satisfy  Talbot, 
"Who  assented  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  as  he  said,  — ■ 


I 


330  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

*'  Very  well,  Lant}^ ;  if  j^ou  will  come  here  to-morrow,  I  '11 
exchange  your  gold  for  you." 

"  Thank  your  honor  kindly,"  said  Lanty,  with  a  bow, 
but  still  making  no  sign  of  leaving  the  room,  where  he  stood, 
changing  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  in  an  attitude  of  bash- 
ful diffidence.  "There  was  another  little  matter,  sir,  but 
I  'd  be  sorry  to  trouble  you  about  it  —  and  sure  you  could  n't 
help  it,  besides." 

"  And  that  is  —     Let  us  hear  it,  Lanty." 

"  AVhy,  sir,  it 's  the  horse,  —  the  mare  with  the  one  white 
fetlock.  They  say,  sir,  that  she  was  left  at  Moran's  stables 
by  the  man  that  robbed  Mr.  Moore,  of  Moore  Croft.  Deaf 
Collison,  the  postboy,  can  swear  to  her;  and  as  I  bought 
her  myself  at  Dycer's,  they  are  calling  me  to  account  for 
when  I  sold  her,  and  to  whom." 

"  Why,  there's  no  end  to  your  trouble  about  that  unlucky 
beast,  Lanty,"  said  Talbot,  laughing;  "and  I  confess  it's 
rather  hard  that  you  are  not  only  expected  to  warrant  your 
horse  sound,  but  must  give  a  guarantee  that  the  rider  is 
honest." 

"Devil  a  lie  in  it,  but  that's  just  it,"  said  Lanty,  who 
laughed  heartily  at  the  notion. 

"  Well,  we  must  look  to  this  for  you,  Lanty ;  for  although 
I  have  no  desire  to  have  my  name  brought  forward,  still  you 
must  not  suffer  on  that  account.  I  remember  paying  my  bill 
at  Rathmallow  with  that  same  mare.  She  made  an  overreach 
coming  down  a  hill,  and  became  dead  lame  with  me ;  and  I 
gave  her  to  the  landlord  of  the  little  inn  in  the  square  in  lieu 
or  my  score." 

"  See,  now,  what  liars  there 's  in  the  world !  "  said  Lanty, 
holding  up  his  hands  in  pious  horror.  "  Ould  Finn,  of  the 
Head  Inn,  tould  me  she  ate  a  feed  of  oats  at  the  door,  and 
started  again  for  Askeaton  with  a  gentleman  just  like  your 
honor  the  night  after  I  sold  her.  He  knew  the  mare  well ; 
and  by  the  same  token  he  said  she  was  galled  on  the 
shoulder  with  holsters  that  was  fixed  to  the  saddle.  Now, 
think  of  that,  and  he  after  buying  her !  Is  it  early  in  the 
morning  I'm  to  come  to  your  honor?"  said  he,  moving 
towards  the  door. 

"Yes  —  that  is  —  no,  Lanty,  no  —  about  twelve  o'clock. 
I  'm  a  late  riser.    Wait  a  moment,  Lanty ;  I  have  something 


A  PRESAGE  OF  DANGER.  331 

more  to  say  to  you,  if  I  could  only  remember  it."  He 
passed  liis  hand  across  his  brow  as  he  spoke,  and  looked 
like  one  laboring  to  recall  some  lost  thought.  "  No  matter," 
said  he,  after  a  pause  of  some  minutes;  "  I  shall,  perhaps, 
recollect  it  before  to-morrow." 

"Good-night  to  you,  then,  sir,"  said  Lanty,  with  a  most 
obsequious  bow,  as  he  opened  the  door. 

Their  eyes  met :  it  was  only  for  a  moment ;  but  with  such 
intelligence  did  each  glance  read  the  other,  that  they  both 
smiled  significantly.  Talbot  moved  quickly  forward  at  the 
instant,  and  closing  the  door  with  one  hand,  he  laid  the 
other  gently  on  Lanty 's  shoulder. 

"Come,  Lanty,"  said  he,  jocularly,  "I  can  afford  to 
sport  ten  pounds  for  a  whim.  Tell  me  who  it  was  sent  you 
after  me  this  evening,  and  I  '11  give  you  the  money." 

"Done,  then!"  cried  Lanty,  grasping  his  hand;  "and 
you  '11  ask  no  more  than  his  name  ?  " 

"  Nothing  more.  I  pledge  my  word ;  and  here 's  the 
money." 

"  Captain  Hemsworth,  the  agent  to  the  rich  Englishman 
at  Glenflesk." 

"  I  don't  think  I  ever  saw  him  in  my  life,  —  I  'm  certain 
I  don't  know  him.     Is  he  a  tall  dark  man?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  no  more,"  said  Lanty.  "  The  devil  a  luck 
I  ever  knew  come  of  speaking  of  him." 

"  All  fair,  Lanty,  —  a  bargain 's  a  bargain  ;  and  so,  good- 
night." And  with  a  shake-hands  of  affected  cordiality  they 
parted. 

"  Your  conference  has  been  a  long  one,"  said  Mark,  who 
waited  with  impatience  until  the  silence  without  permitted 
him  to  come  forth. 

"Not  so  long  as  I  could  have  wished  it,"  was  Talbot's 
reply,  as  he  stood  in  deep  thought  over  what  had  passed. 
"  It's  just  as  I  feared,  Mark;  there  is  danger  brewing  for 
me  in  some  quarter,  but  how,  or  in  what  shape,  I  cannot 
even  guess.     This  same  horse-dealer,  this  Lanty  Lawler  —  '* 

"  Lanty  Lawler,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  know  him,  then?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  do.  We've  had  many  dealings  together. 
He's  a  shrewd  fellow,  and  not  over-scrupulous  in  the  way 


332  THE   O'DOXOGHUE, 

of  his  trade ;  but,  apart  from  that,  he  's  a  true-hearted, 
honest  fellow,  and  a  friend  to  the  cause." 

"  You  think  so,  Mark,"  said  Talbot,  with  a  smile  of 
significant  meaning. 

"I  know  it,  Talbot.  He  is  not  an  acquaintance  of  yes- 
terday with  me.  I  have  known  him  for  years  long.  He  is 
as  deep  in  the  plot  as  any,  and  perhaps  has  run  greater  risks 
than  either  of  us." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Talbot,  sighing,  as  either  weary  of  the 
theme  or  disinclined  to  contradict  the  opinion;  "let  us 
think  of  other  matters.  Shall  we  go  to  this  ball  or  not? 
I  incline  to  say  nay." 

"What!  Not  go  there?"  said  Mark,  starting  back  in 
astonishment.  "Why,  what  in  Heaven's  name  have  we 
been  waiting  for  but  this  very  opportunity  ?  —  and  what 
reason  is  there  now  to  turn  from  our  plans  ?  " 

' '  There  may  be  good  and  sufficient  ones,  even  though 
they  should  be  purely  personal  to  myself,"  said  Talbot,  in 
a  tone  of  ill-dissembled  pique.  "But  come;  we  will  go.  I 
have  been  walking  over  a  mine  too  long  to  care  for  a  mere 
petard.  And  now,  let  us  lose  no  more  time,  but  dress  at 
once." 

"  Must  I  really  wear  this  absurd  dress,  Talbot?  For  very 
shame's  sake,  I  shall  not  be  able  to  look  about  me." 

"  That  you  must,  Mark.  Remember  that  your  safety 
lies  in  the  fact  that  we  attract  no  notice  of  any  kind.  To 
be  as  little  remarked  as  possible  is  our  object;  and  for 
this  reason  I  shall  wear  the  uniform  of  an  English  militia 
regiment,  of  which  there  are  many  at  every  levee.  We  shall 
separate  on  entering  the  room,  and  meet  only  from  time  to 
time ;  but  as  we  go  along,  I  '11  give  you  all  your  instruc- 
tions.    And  now  to  dress  as  quickly  as  may  be." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  ST.  Patrick's  ball. 

Much  as  O'Donoghue  marvelled  at  the  change  effected  in 
his  own  appearance  by  the  court  dress,  he  was  still  more 
surprised  at  finding  what  a  complete  transformation  his 
friend  Talbot  had  undergone.  The  scarlet  uniform  seemed 
to  make  him  appear  larger  and  fatter ;  while  the  assumption 
of  a  pair  of  dark  whiskers  added  several  years  to  his  appar- 
ent age,  and  totally  changed  the  character  of  his  countenance. 

"  I  see  by  your  face,  Mark,"  said  he,  laughing,  "  that  the 
disguise  is  complete.  You  could  scarcely  recognize  me,  —  I 
may  safely  defy  most  others." 

"  But  you  are  taller,  I  think?  " 

"  About  an  inch  and  a  half  only,  —  false  heels  inside  my 
boots  give  me  a  slight  advantage  over  you.  Don't  be  jeal- 
ous, however;  I'm  not  your  match  on  a  fair  footing." 

This  flattery  seemed  successful,  for  Mark  smiled  and 
reddened  slightly.  As  they  drove  along,  Talbot  entered 
minutely  into  an  account  of  the  people  they  should  meet  with, 

—  warning  Mark  of  the  necessity  there  existed  to  avoid  any, 
even  the  most  trivial,  sign  of  astonishment  at  anything  he 
saw ;  to  mix  with  the  crowd,  and  follow  the  current  from 
room  to  room,  carefully  guarding  against  making  any  chance 
acquaintance ;  and,  above  all,  not  to  be  recognized  by  his 
cousin  Kate,  if  by  any  accident  he  should  be  near  her. 

In  the  midst  of  these  directions,  Talbot  was  interrupted 
by  the  sudden  stoppage  of  the  carriages  in  the  line,  already 
extended  above  a  mile  from  the  Castle  gate. 

"  Here  we  are  at  last,  Mark,  in  the  train  of  the  courtiers, 

—  does  your  patriotism  burn  for  the  time  when  your  hom- 
age shall  be  rendered  to  a  native  sovereign  ?  Ha  !  there 
goes  one  of  the  privileged  class,  —  that  carriage,  with  the 


334  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

two  footmen,  is  the  Lord  Chancellor's ;  he  has  the  right  of 
the  private  entree^  and  takes  the  lead  of  such  humble  folk 
as  we  are  mixed  up  with." 

A  deep  groan  from  the  mob  burst  forth  as  the  equipage, 
thus  noticed,  dashed  forward.  Such  manifestations  of 
public  feeling  were  then  frequent,  and  not  always  limited 
to  mere  expressions  of  dislike.  The  very  circumstance  of 
quitting  the  regular  line  and  passing  the  rest,  seemed  to 
evoke  popular  indignation,  and  it  was  wonderful  with  what 
readiness  the  mob  caught  up  allusions  to  the  public  or 
private  life  of  those  thus  momentarily  exposed  to  their 
indignation.  Some  speech  or  vote  in  Parliament,  some 
judicial  sentence,  or  some  act  or  event  in  their  private  history, 
was  at  once  recalled  and  criticised  in  a  manner  far  more  frank 
than  flattering.  None  escaped  this  notice,  for,  notwithstand- 
ing the  strong  force  of  mounted  police  that  kept  the  street 
clear,  some  adventurous  spirit  was  always  ready  to  rush  for- 
ward to  the  carriage  window,  and  in  a  moment  announce 
to  the  others  the  name  of  its  occupant.  By  all  this  Mark 
was  greatly  amused  ;  he  had  few  sympathies  with  those  in 
little  favor  with  the  multitude,  and  could  afford  to  laugh  at 
the  sallies  which  assailed  the  members  of  the  Government. 
The  taunting  sarcasms  and  personal  allusions,  of  which  the 
Irish  members  were  not  sparing  in  the  House,  were  here 
repeated  by  those  who  suffered  the  severity  to  lose  little  of 
its  sting  in  their  own  version. 

"Look  at  Flood,  bo3^s,  —  there's  the  old  vulture  with 
broken  beak  and  cadaverous  aspect,  —  a  groan  for  Flood  !  " 
And  the  demand  was  answered  by  thousands. 

"There's  Tom  Connolly,"  shouted  a  loud  voice;  "three 
cheers  for  the  Volunteers,  —  three  cheers  for  Castletown !  " 

"  Thank  you,  boys,  thank  you,"  said  a  rich,  mellow  voice, 
as  in  their  enthusiasm  the  mob  pressed  around  the  carriage 
of  the  popular  member,  and  even  shook  hands  with  the  foot- 
men behind  the  carriage. 

"Here's  Luttrel,  here's  Luttrel !  "  cried  out  several  to- 
gether ;  and  in  a  moment  the  excitement,  which  before  was 
all  joy,  assumed  a  character  of  deepest  execration. 

Aware  of  the  popular  feeling  towards  him,  this  gentle- 
man's carriage  was  guarded  by  two  troopers  of  the  horsfe 


THE   ST.   PATRICK'S  BALL.  335 

police.  Nor  was  the  precaution  needless,  for  no  sooner  was 
he  recognized  than  a  general  rush  was  made  by  the  mob, 
and  for  a  moment  or  two  the  carriage  was  separated  from 
the  rest  of  the  line. 

"Groan  him,  boys,  groan  him,  but  don't  touch  the  trai- 
tor !  "  shouted  a  savage-looking  fellow,  who  stood  a  head 
and  shoulders  above  the  crowd. 

"  Could  n't  you  afford  to  buy  new  liveries  with  the  eighty 
thousand  pounds  the  Government  gave  you?"  yelled 
another ;  and  the  sally  was  responded  to  with  a  burst  of 
savage  laughter. 

"Throw  us  out  a  penny,"  called  a  third;  "it  will  treat 
all  your  friends  in  Ireland.  Let  him  go,  boys,  let  him  go 
—  he  's  only  stopping  the  way  of  his  betters !  " 

"  Here's  the  man  that  knows  how  to  spend  his  money,  — 
three  cheers  for  the  Englishman  from  Stephen's  Green,  — 
three  cheers  for  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers  !  "  And  the  cheers 
burst  forth  with  an  enthusiasm  that  showed  how  much  more 
a  character  for  benevolence  and  personal  kindness  con- 
ciliated mob  estimation  than  all  the  attributes  of  political 
partisanship. 

"Bring  us  a  lamp  here,  bring  us  a  lamp!  "  cried  a  mis- 
erable object  in  tattered  rags;  "take  down  a  lamp,  boys, 
till  we  have  a  look  at  the  two  beauties ;  "  and,  strange  as 
the  suggestion  may  seem,  it  was  hailed  with  a  cry  of  tri- 
umphal delight,  and  in  another  moment  a  street  lamp  was 
taken  from  its  place  and  handed  over  the  heads  of  the  mob 
to  the  very  window  of  Sir  Marmaduke's  carriage ;  while  the 
old  baronet,  kindly  humoring  the  eccentricities  of  the  peo- 
ple, lowered  the  glass  to  permit  them  to  see  in.  A  respect- 
ful silence  extended  over  that  crowd,  motley  and  miserable 
as  it  was,  and  they  stood  in  mute  admiration,  not  venturing 
upon  a  word  nor  a  remark,  until,  as  it  were,  overcome  by  a 
spontaneous  feeling  of  enthusiasm,  they  broke  forth  into 
one  loud  cheer  that  echoed  from  the  College  to  the  very 
gates  of  the  Castle ;  and  with  blessings  deep  and  fervent, 
as  they  would  have  bestowed  for  some  real  favor,  the  car- 
riage was  allowed  to  proceed  on  its  way  once  more. 

"Here's  Morris,  here's  the  Colonel!  "  was  now  the  cry; 
and  a  burst  of  as  merry  laughter  as  ever  issued  from  happy 


336  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

hearts  welcomed  the  new  arrival.  **Make  him  get  out, 
boys,  make  him  get  out,  and  show  us  his  legs ;  that 's  the 
fellow  ran  away  in  Flanders  I  "  And  before  the  mirth  had 
subsided,  the  unhappy"  colonel  had  passed  on. 

"Who's  this  in  the  hackney-coach?"  said  one,  as  the 
carriage  in  which  Talbot  and  Mark  were  seated  came  up. 
The  window  was  let  down  in  a  moment,  and  Talbot,  lean- 
ing his  head  out,  whispered  a  few  words  in  a  low  voice ; 
whatever  their  import,  their  effect  was  magical,  and  a  hurrah, 
as  wild  as  the  war-cry  of  an  Indian,  shook  the  street. 

"What  was  it  you  said?"  cried  Mark. 

"Three  words  in  Irish,"  said  Talbot,  laughing;  "they 
are  the  only  three  in  my  vocabulary,  and  their  meaning  is, 
'  Wait  a  while ; '  and,  somehow,  it  would  seem  a  very  sig- 
nificant intimation  to  Irishmen." 

The  carriage  moved  on,  and  the  two  friends  alighted  in 
the  brilliantly  illuminated  vestibule,  now  lined  with  battle- 
axe-guards,  and  resounding  with  the  clangor  of  a  brass 
band.  Mixing  with  the  crowd  that  poured  up  the  stair- 
case, they  passed  into  the  first  drawing-room  without  stop- 
ping to  write  their  names,  as  was  done  by  the  others,  Tal- 
bot telling  Mark,  in  a  whisper,  to  move  up  and  follow  him 
closely. 

The  distressing  impression  that  he  himself  would  be  an 
object  of  notice  and  remark  to  others,  and  which  had  up 
to  that  very  moment  tortured  him,  gave  way  at  once,  as  he 
found  himself  in  that  splendid  assemblage,  where  beauty, 
in  all  the  glare  of  dress  and  jewels,  abounded,  and  where, 
for  the  first  time,  the  world  of  fashion  and  elegance  burst 
upon  his  astonished  senses.  The  courage  that,  with  daunt- 
less nerve,  would  have  led  him  to  the  cannon's  mouth,  now 
actually  faltered,  and  made  him  feel  faint-hearted,  to  find 
himself  mixing  with  those  among  whom  he  had  no  right  to 
be  present.  Talbot's  shrewd  intelligence  seemed  to  divine 
what  was  passing  in  Mark's  mind,  for  he  took  him  by  the 
arm,  and  as  he  led  him  forward,  whispered,  from  time  to 
time,  certain  particulars  of  the  company,  intended  to  satisfy 
him  that,  however  distinguished  b}"  rank  and  personal  ap- 
pearance, in  reality  their  characters  had  little  claim  to  his 
respect.     With  suc-h  success  did  he  demolish  reputations,  — 


THE   ST.   PATRICK'S  BALL.  337 

80  fatally  did  bis  sarcasms  depreciate  those  against  whom 
they  were  directed,  —  that,  ere  long,  Mark  moved  along  in 
utter  contempt  for  that  gorgeous  throng,  which  at  first  had 
impressed  him  so  profoundly.  To  hear  that  the  proud- 
looking  general,  his  coat  a  blaze  of  orders,  was  a  coward ; 
that  the  benign  and  mild-faced  judge  was  a  merciless,  un- 
relenting tyrant ;  that  the  bishop,  whose  simple  bearing  and 
gentle  quietude  of  manner  were  most  winning,  was  in  real- 
ity a  crafty  place-hunter  and  a  subtle  intrigant^  —  such  were 
the  lessons  Talbot  poured  into  his  ear,  while  amid  the  ranks 
of  beauty  still  more  deadly  calumnies  pointed  all  he  said. 

"  Society  is  rotten  to  the  very  core  here,  Mark,"  said  he, 
bitterly.  "  There  never  was  a  land  nor  an  age  when  prof- 
ligacy stood  so  high  in  the  market.  It  remains  to  be  seen 
if  our  friends  will  do  better,  —  for  a  time,  at  least,  they  are 
almost  certain  to  do  so ;  but  now  that  I  have  shown  you 
something  of  the  company,  let  us  separate,  lest  we  be  re- 
marked. This  pillar  can  always  be  our  rallying  spot. 
Whenever  you  want  me,  come  here ;  "  and  so  saying,  and 
with  a  slight  pressure  of  his  hand,  Talbot  mixed  with  the 
crowd,  and  soon  was  lost  to  Mark's  view. 

Talbot's  revelations  served  at  first  to  impair  the  pleasure 
Mark  experienced  in  the  brilliant  scene  around  him ;  but 
when  once  more  alone,  the  magnetic  influence  of  a  splen- 
dor so  new,  and  of  beauty  so  dazzling,  appealed  to  his 
heart  far  more  powerfully  than  the  cold  sarcasms  of  his 
companion.  Glances  which,  directed  to  others,  he  caught 
in  passing,  and  felt  with  a  throb  of  ecstasy  within  his  own 
bosom ;  bright  eyes,  that  beamed  not  for  him,  sent  a  glow 
of  delight  through  his  frame.  The  atmosphere  of  pleasure 
which  he  had  never  breathed  before,  now  warmed  the  cur- 
rent of  his  blood,  and  his  pulse  beat  high  and  madly.  All 
the  bitter  thoughts  he  had  harbored  against  his  country's 
enemies  could  not  stand  before  his  admiration  of  that  gor- 
geous assemblage,  and  he  felt  ashamed  to  think  that  he, 
and  such  as  he,  should  conspire  the  downfall  of  a  system 
whose  very  externals  were  so  captivating.  He  wandered 
thus  from  room  to  room  in  a  dream  of  pleasure  —  now 
stopping  to  gaze  at  the  dancers,  then  moving  towards  some 
of   the    refreshment-rooms,  where    parties   were    seated   in 

VOL.   I.  — 22 


338  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

familiar  circles,  all  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  brilliant 
festivity.  Like  a  child  roaming  at  will  through  some  beau- 
teous garden,  heightening  enjoyment  by  the  rapid  variety 
of  new  pleasures,  and  making  in  the  quick  transition  of 
sensations  a  source  of  more  fervid  delight,  so  did  he  pass 
from  place  to  place,  and  in  this  way  time  stole  by,  and  he 
utterly  forgot  the  rendezvous  he  had  arranged  with  Talbot. 
At  last,  suddenly  remembering  this,  he  endeavored  to  find 
out  the  place,  and  in  doing  so  was  forced  to  pass  through 
a  card-room,  where  several  parties  were  now  at  play. 
Around  one  of  the  tables  a  greater  crowd  than  usual  was 
assembled.  There,  as  he  passed,  Mark  thought  he  over- 
heard Talbot's  voice.  He  stopped  and  drew  near,  and,  with 
some  little  difficulty,  making  his  way  through,  perceived  his 
friend  seated  at  the  table,  deeply  engaged  in  what,  if  he 
were  to  judge  from  the  heap  of  gold  before  him,  seemed 
very  high  play.  His  antagonist  was  an  old,  fine-looking 
man,  in  the  uniform  of  a  general  officer ;  but  while  Mark 
looked,  he  arose,  and  his  place  was  taken  by  another,  —  the 
etiquette  being,  that  the  winner  should  remain  until  he 
ceased  to  win. 

"He  has  passed  eleven  times,"  said  a  gentleman  to  his 
friend,  in  Mark's  hearing;  "he  must  at  least  have  won 
four  hundred   pounds." 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  who  he  is?  " 

"  No ;  nor  do  I  know  any  one  that  does.  There  !  —  see ! 
—  he  has  won  again." 

"  He  's  a  devilish  cool  player,  —  that 's  certain.  I  never 
saw  a  man  more  collected." 

"He  studies  his  adversar}^  far  more  than  his  cards,  —  I 
remark  that." 

"Oh!  here's  old  Clangoff  come  to  try  his  luck:"  and 
an  opening  of  the  crowd  was  now  made  to  permit  a  tall 
and  very  old  man  to  approach  the  table.  Very  much 
stooped  in  the  shoulders,  and  with  snow-white  hair.  Lord 
Clangoff  still  preserved  the  remains  of  one  who  in  his 
youth  had  been  the  handsomest  man  of  his  day.  Although 
simply  dressed  in  the  Windsor  uniform,  the  brilliant  rings 
he  wore  upon  his  fingers,  and  the  splendor  of  a  gold  snuff- 
box surrounded  by  enormous  diamonds,  evinced  the  taste 


THE   ST.  PATRICK'S  BALL.  339 

for  magnificence  for  which  he  was  celebrated.  There  was 
an  air  of  dignity  with  w^hich  he  took  his  seat,  saluting  the 
acquaintances  he  recognized  about  him,  very  strikingly  in 
contrast  with  the  familiar  manners  then  growing  into  vogue, 
while  in  the  courteous  urbanity  of  his  bow  to  Talbot,  his 
whole  breeding  was  revealed. 

"  It  is  a  proud  thing  even  to  encounter  such  an  adversary, 
sir,"  said  he,  smiling.  "  They  have  just  told  me  that  you 
have  vanquished  our  best  players." 

"  The  caprice  of  Fortune,  my  Lord,  that  so  often  favors 
the  undeserving,"  said  Talbot,  with  a  gesture  of  extreme 
humility. 

"Your  success  should  be  small  at  play,  if  the  French 
adage  have  any  truth  in  it,"  said  his  lordship,  alluding  to 
Talbot's  handsome  features,  which  seemed  to  indicate  favor 
with  the  softer  sex. 

'•According  to  that  theory,  my  Lord,  I  have  the  advan- 
tage over  you  at  present." 

This  adroit  flattery  at  the  other's  earlier  reputation  as  a 
gallant  seemed  to  please  Mm  highly ;  for,  as  he  presented 
his  box  to  one  of  his  friends  near,  he  whispered,  "A  very 
well-bred  fellow  indeed."  Then,  turning  to  Talbot,  said, 
>'  Do  you  like  a  high  stake?  " 

"I  am  completely  at  your  service,  my  Lord,  —  whatever 
you  please." 

"  Shall  we  say  fifty,  or  do  you  prefer  a  hundred?  " 

"  If  the  same  to  you,  I  like  the  latter  just  twice  as  well." 

The  old  lord  smiled  at  having  found  an  adversary  similarly 
disposed  with  himself,  and  drew  out  his  pocket-book  with  an 
air  of  palpable  satisfaction ;  while  in  the  looks  of  increased 
interest  among  the  bystanders  could  be  seen  the  anxiety 
they  felt  in  the  coming  struggle. 

"  You  have  the  deal,  my  Lord,"  said  Talbot,  presenting 
the  cards.  "  Still,  if  any  gentleman  cares  for  another  fifty 
on  the  game  —  " 

"I'll  take  it,  sir,"  said  a  voice  from  behind  Lord  Clan- 
goff's  chair ;  and  Mark,  struck  by  the  accent,  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  speaker.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  face  at  once,  for 
it  was  Hemsworth  who  stood  before  him,  — the  ancient  enemy 
of   his    house ;    the    tyrant,    whose    petty    oppressions    and 


340  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Studied  insults  had  been  a  theme  he  was  familiar  with  from 
boyhood.  All  fear  of  his  being  recognized  himself  was 
merged  in  the  savage  pleasure  he  felt  in  staring  fixedly  at 
the  man  he  hated. 

He  would  have  given  much  to  be  able  to  whisper  the  name 
into  Talbot's  ear;  but  remembering  how  such  an  attempt 
might  be  attended  by  a  discovery  of  himself,  he  desisted, 
and  with  a  throbbing  heart  awaited  the  result  of  the  game. 
Meanwhile  Hemsworth,  whose  whole  attention  was  concen- 
trated on  Talbot,  never  turned  his  eyes  towards  any  other 
quarter.  The  moment  seemed  favorable  for  Mark,  and 
gently  retiring  througli  the  crowd,  he  at  last  disengaged 
himself,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  a  doorway.  His 
mind  was  full  of  its  own  teeming  thoughts,  —  thoughts  that 
the  hated  presence  of  his  enemy  sent  madly  thronging  upon 
him ;  he  lost  all  memory  of  where  he  was,  nor  did  he  remark 
that  two  persons  had  entered  and  seated  themselves  near 
him.  when  a  word,  a  single  word,  fell  upon  his  ear.  He 
turned  round  and  saw  his  cousin  Kate  sitting  beside  Frederick 
Travers.  The  start  of  surprise  he  could  not  restrain  attracted 
her  notice.  She  turned  also,  and  as  a  deadly  pallor  came 
over  her  features,  she  uttered  the  one  word,  "Mark!" 
Travers  immediately  caught  the  name,  and,  leaning  forward, 
the  two  young  men's  ej^es  met,  and  for  some  seconds  never 
wandered  from  each  other. 

"  I  should  have  gone  to  see  you,  cousin  Kate,"  said  Mark, 
after  a  momentary  struggle  to  seem  calm  and  collected,  "  but 
I  feared  —  that  is,  I  did  not  know  — " 

"  But  Mark,  dear  Mark,  why  are  you  here?"  said  she,  in 
a  tone  of  heartfelt  terror.  "  Do  you  know  that  none  save 
those  presented  at  the  levees,  and  known  to  the  Lord-Lieu- 
tenant, dare  to  attend  these  balls  ?  ^' 

"I  came  with  a  friend,"  said  Mark,  in  a  voice  where 
anger  and  self-reproach  were  mingled.  "If  he  misled  me, 
he  must  answer  for  it." 

"  It  was  imprudent,  Mr.  O'Donoghue,  and  that 's  all," 
said  Travers,  in  a  tone  of  great  gentleness;  "and  your 
friend  should  not  have  misled  you.  I  '11  take  care  that  noth- 
ing unpleasant  shall  arise  in  consequence.  Just  remain  here 
for  a  moment." 


THE   ST.   PATRICK'S  BALL.  341 

*' Stay,  sir,"  said  Mark,  as  Travers  rose  from  his  seat; 
*'  I  hate  accepting  favors,  even  should  they  release  me  from 
a  position  as  awkward  as  this  is.  Here  comes  my  friend 
Talbot,  and  he  '11  perhaps  explain  what  I  cannot." 

"I've  lost  my  money,  Mark,"  said  Talbot,  coming  for- 
ward, and  perceiving  with  much  anxiety  that  his  young 
friend  was  engaged  in  a  conversation.  "  Let  us  move  about 
and  see  the  dancers." 

"Wait  a  few  seconds  first,"  said  Mark,  sternly,  "and 
satisfy  this  gentleman  that  I  'm  not  in  fault  in  coming  here, 
save  so  far  as  being  induced  by  you  to  do  so." 

' '  May  I  ask  how  the  gentleman  feels  called  on  to  require 
the  explanation  ?  "  said  Talbot,  proudly. 

"  I  wish  him  to  know  the  circumstances,"  said  Mark. 

"And  I,"  said  Travers,  interrupting,  "might  claim  a 
right  to  ask  it  as  first  aide-de-camp  to  his  Excellency." 

"So  then,"  whispered  Talbot,  with  a  smile,  "it  is  the 
mere  impertinence  of  office." 

Travers's  face  flushed  up,  and  his  lips  quivered,  as,  in  an 
equally  low  tone  of  voice,  he  said,  — 

"Where  and  when,  sir,  will  you  dare  to  repeat  these 
words?" 

"To-morrow  morning,  at  seven  o'clock,  on  the  strand 
below  Clontarf,  and  in  this  gentleman's  presence,"  said 
Talbot,  into  his  ear. 

A  nod  from  Travers  completed  the  arrangement,  and 
Talbot,  placing  his  arm  hurriedly  within  Mark's,  said,  — 

"  Let  us  get  away  from  this,  Mark.  It  is  all  settled. 
We  meet  to-morrow." 

Mark  turned  one  look  towards  Kate,  who  was  just  in  the 
act  of  accepting  Travers's  arm  to  return  to  the  ball-room. 
Their  glances  met  for  a  second,  but  with  how  different  a 
meaning  !  — in  hers^  a  world  of  anxiety  and  interest;  in  his^ 
the  proud  and  scornful  defiance  of  one  who  seemed  to 
accept  of  no  compromise  with  fortune. 

"  So,  then,  it  is  your  friend  Travers,  Mark,  with  whom 
I  am  to  have  the  honor  of  a  rencontre.  I  'm  sorry,  for  your 
sake,  that  it  is  so." 

"And  why  so?"  asked  Mark,  sternly,  for  in  his  present 
mood  he  was  as  little  satisfied  with  Talbot  as  with  Travers. 


342  THE   O'DOKOGHUE. 

""  Because,  if  I  don't  mistake  much,  you  will  not  have 
the  opportunity  of  wiping  out  your  old  score  with  him. 
I  '11  shoot  him,  Mark ! "  These  last  words  were  uttered 
between  his  almost  closed  teeth,  and  in  a  tone  of  scarce 
restrained  anger.  ' '  Are  either  of  us  looking  very  bloody- 
minded  or  savage,  Mark,  I  wonder?  for  see  how  the  people 
are  staring  and  whispering  as  we  pass !  " 

The  observation  was  not  made  without  reason,  for  al- 
ready the  two  young  men  were  regarded  on  all  sides  as 
they  passed,  —  the  different  persons  in  their  way  retiring  as 
they  approached. 

"How  do  you  do,  my  Lord?  I  hope  I  see  you  well,'* 
said  Talbot,  bowing  familiarly  to  a  venerable  old  man  who 
stood  near,  and  who  as  promptly  returned  his  salute. 

''  Who  is  it  you  bowed  to?  "  said  Mark,  in  a  whisper. 

"The  Chief  Justice,  Mark.  Not  that  I  know  him,  or 
he  me ;  but  at  this  critical  moment  such  a  recognition  is 
a  certificate  of  character  which  will  at  least  last  long 
enough  to  see  us  downstairs.  There,  let  me  move  on  first, 
and  follow  me ;  "  and  as  he  spoke,  he  edged  his  way  through 
a  crowded  door,  leaving  Mark  to  follow  how  he  could. 
This  was,  however,  a  task  of  more  difficulty  than  it  seemed, 
for  already  a  number  of  persons  blocked  up  the  doorway, 
eager  to  hear  something  which  a  gentleman  was  relating  to 
those  about  him. 

"I  can  only  tell  you,"  continued  he,  ''that  none  seems 
to  know  either  of  them.  As  Clangoff  has  lost  the  diamond 
snuff-box  the  Emperor  of  Austria  presented  him  with,  —  he 
missed  it  after  leaving  the  card-table,  —  the  presumption  is, 
that  we  are  favored  with  somewhat  doubtful  company." 

"  Carysford  says,"  cried  another,  "  that  he  knows  one  of 
them  well,  and  has  often  seen  him  in  Paris  at  the  play- 
houses." 

A  low  whisper  ran  around  after  these  words,  and  at  the 
mstant  every  eye  was  directed  to  Mark  O'Donoghue.  The 
young  man  sustained  their  looks  with  a  frown  of  resolute 
daring,  turning  from  one  to  the  other  to  see  if,  perchance, 
by  any  gesture  or  expression,  he  could  single  out  one  to 
pay  the  penalty  for  the  rest :  his  blood  boiled  at  the  insult- 
ing glances  that  fell  upon  him,  and  he  was  in  the  very  act 


THE   ST.   PATRICK'S  BALL. 


143 


of  giving  his  temper  vent,  when  an  arm  was  slipped  within 
his,  and  Frederick  Travers  whispered  in  his  ear,  — 

"  I  hope  your  friend  has  got  safely  away.  There  are  some 
fellows  here  to-night  of  notoriously  bad  character,  and  Mr. 
Talbot  may  get  into  trouble  on  that  account." 

"  He  has  just  left  this.  I  hope  before  now  he  has  reached 
the  street." 

"Let   me   be   your   convoy,  then,"    said  Travers,  good- 


naturedly.  "These  talking  fools  will  cease  their  scandal 
when  they  see  us  together ;  "  and,  affecting  an  air  of  easy 
intimacy,  he  led  Mark  through  the  crowd,  which  even  already 
bestowed  very  altered  glances  as  they  passed. 

"Good  night,  sir,"  said  Mark,  abruptly,  as  they  arrived 
at  the  room  by  which  he  remembered  to  have  entered;  "I 
see  my  friend  yonder,  awaiting  me."  Travers  returned 
the  greeting,  and  half  extended  his  hand,  but  Mark  coolly 
bowed  and  turned  away.  The  moment  after  he  was  at 
Talbot's  side. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  we  are  breathing  the  free  air  again !  " 


344  THE  O'DOXOGHUE. 

he  exclaimed,  as  they  issued  forth  into  the  street;  "  a  little 
longer  would  have  suffocated  me." 

*'  It  was  with  Travers  you  parted  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs?"  said  Talbot,  inquiringly. 

"Yes;  he  was  polite  enough  to  come  up  when  j^ou  left 
me,  and  the  company  and  myself  have  reason  to  be  thankful 
to  him,  for  assuredly  we  were,  both  of  us,  forgetting  our 
good  manners  very  much  at  the  moment.  They  were 
pleased  to  look  at  me  in  a  fashion  of  very  questionable 
civility,  and  I,  I  greatly  fear,  was  scarcely  more  polite.  It 
would  seem,  Talbot,  that  some  swindlers  or  pickpockets  had 
introduced  themselves  at  the  assembly,  and  we  had  the  honor 
of  being  confounded  with  them,  —  so  much  for  the  prudence 
of  our  first  step." 

"  Come,  come,  Mark,  don't  lose  temper  about  trifles." 

"Would  it  have  proved  a  trifle  if  I  had  thrown  one  of 
those  gold-laced  fops  out  of  the  window  into  the  court?  I 
promise  you  the  temptation  was  devilish  strong  in  me  to  act 
so  at  one  moment.  But  what  have  we  gained  by  all  this  ? 
where  were  the  friends  you  should  have  met?  whom  have 
you  seen?  what  have  you  learned?" 

Talbot  made  no  reply,  but  walked  on  in  silence. 

"  Or  have  we  exposed  ourselves  to  the  taunting  insolence 
of  these  people  for  the  mock  pleasure  of  mixing  with  them  ? 
Is  that  our  gain  here  ?  " 

Still  Talbot  made  no  reply,  and  Mark,  as  if  his  passion  ^ 

had  expended  itself,  now  became  silent  also,  and  in  this 
wise  they  reached  the  hotel,  each  sunk  in  his  own  personal 
reflections. 

"Now,  Mark,"  said  Talbot,  when  they  had  gained  their 
room,  "  now  let  us  set  ourselves  to  think  over  what  is  to  be 
done,  and  not  waste  a  thought  on  what  is  bygone.  At  seven 
to-morrow  I  am  to  meet  Travers ;  before  nine  I  must  be  on 
the  way  to  P'rance,  that  is,  if  he  do  not  issue  a  leaden  ne 
exeat  against  me.  I  shall  certainly  fire  at  him,  — your  pretty 
cousin  will  never  forgive  me  for  it,  that  I  know  well,"  — 
here  he  stole  a  side  look  at  Mark,  across  whose  features  a 
flash  of  passion  was  thrown,  —  "  still,  I  am  sorry  this  should 
have  occurred,  because  I  had  many  things  to  settle  here; 
among  others,  some  which  more  nearly  concerned  yourself." 


THE   ST.   PATRICK'S  BALL.  345 

"  Me  !  —  concerned  me  !  "  said  Mark,  in  surprise. 

"  Yes,  I  am  deeper  in  your  secrets  than  you  are  aware  of, 
■ —  deeper  than  you  are  yourself,  perhaps.  What  would  you 
say,  Mark,  if  I  could  ensure  you  the  possession  of  your 
property  and  estate,  as  it  was  left  to  you  by  your  grand- 
father, without  debt  or  incumbrance  of  any  kind,  free  from 
mortgage  ?  " 

''  Free  from  Hemsworth?"  cried  Mark,  passionately. 

"  Even  so  ;  I  was  just  coming  to  that." 

"  I  know  not  what  I  should  say,  Talbot,  but  I  know  what 
I  should  do,  —  throw  every  farthing  of  it  into  the  scale  where 
I  have  thrown  life  and  hope,  —  the  cause  of  my  country." 

Talbot  shook  his  head  doubtfully  for  a  second  or  two, 
then  said,  — 

*'  It  is  not  money  is  wanting  to  the  enterprise,  it  is  rather 
what  no  money  can  buy,  —  the  reckless  courage  of  men  will- 
ing to  devote  themselves  to  a  cause  which  they  must  never 
hope  to  live  to  see  successful,  but  whose  graves  must  be  the 
ramparts  over  which  others  will  achieve  liberty.  No,  my 
hopes  for  you  point  otherwise.  I  wish  to  see  you  as  the 
head  and  representative  of  an  ancient  name  and  house,  with 
the  influence  property  and  position  would  confer,  taking  your 
place  in  the  movement,  not  as  a  soldier  of  fortune,  but  as  a 
man  of  rank  and  weight."  Talbot  paused  for  a  moment  to 
enjoy,  as  it  were,  the  delight  this  brilliant  picture  of  coming 
greatness  produced  upon  the  youth,  and  then  went  on, 
"  Such  a  place  I  can  offer  you,  Mark." 

"How,  and  on  what  terms?"  cried  Mark,  bursting  with 
impatience. 

"I  make  no  conditions, — I  am  your  friend,  and  ask 
nothing  but  your  friendship.  A  lucky  chance  has  given  me 
the  opportunity  to  serve  you ;  all  I  bargain  for  is,  that  j^ou 
do  not  inquire  further  how  that  chance  arose." 

Mark  stood  in  mute  amazement  while  Talbot,  unlocking 
his  writing-desk,  drew  forth  a  dark  leather  pocket-book,  tied 
with  a  string,  and  laid  it  leisurely  on  the  table  before  him. 

"There  is  a  condition  I  will  bargain  for,  Mark,"  said 
Talbot,  after  a  pause,  "although  I'm  sure  it  is  a  weak- 
ness I  scarcely  ever  thought  to  feel.  AYe  shall  soon  be 
separated;  who  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again,  if  ever? 


346  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Now,  if  men  should  speak  of  me  in  terms  unworthy  of  one 
who  has  been  your  friend,  laying  to  my  charge  acts  of 
dishonor  —  " 

"Who  will  dare  to  do  so  before  me?"  said  Mark,  in- 
dignantly. 

"  It  will  happen,  nevertheless,  Mark;  and  I  ask  not  your 
defence  of  me  when  absent,  as  much  as  that  you  will  your- 
self reject  all  belief  in  these  calumnies.  I  have  told  you 
enough  of  my  life  to  let  you  know  in  what  circumstances 
of  difficulty  and  danger  different  parts  have  been  forced 
upon  me,  and  it  may  be  that,  while  I  have  personated  others, 
they  in  revenge  have  masqueraded  under  my  name.  This 
is  no  mere  suspicion.  I  know  it  has  already  happened. 
Bear  it  well  in  mind,  and  when  your  friend  Henry  Talbot 
is  assailed,  remember  the  explanation  and  your  own 
promise." 

Mark  grasped  Talbot's  hand  firmly,  and  shook  it  with  the 
warmth  of  true  friendship. 

"  Sit  down  beside  me,  Mark,"  said  he,  placing  the  chairs 
at  the  table,  "  and  read  this." 

With  these  words  he  unfastened  the  string  of  the  pocket- 
book,  and  took  forth  a  small  paper  from  an  envelope,  of 
which  the  seal  was  already  broken. 

"  This  is  addressed  to  your  father,  Mark,"  said  he,  show- 
ing him  the  superscription. 

"  I  know  that  handwriting,"  said  Mark,  gazing  fixedly  at 
it;   "  that  is  Father  Rourke's." 

"Yes,  that's  the  name,"  said  Talbot,  opening  the  letter. 
^'Read  this,"  and  he  handed  the  paper  to  Mark,  while  he 
himself  read  aloud  :  — 

" '  Mark  O'Donoghue,  son  of  Miles  O'Donoghue  and  Mary  his 
wife,  born  25th  December,  1774,  and  christened  on  the  morning 
of  the  27th  of  December,  same  year,  by  me,  Nicholas  Rourke,  P.P., 
Ballyvourney  and  Glengariff.  Witnessed  by  us,  Simon  Gaffney, 
steward,  and  Sam.  Wylie,  butler.' " 

"And  what  of  all  that?"  said  Mark,  with  a  voice  of 
evident  disappointment.  "Do  j-ou  think  I  wanted  this 
certificate  of  birth  or  baptism  to  claim  my  name  or  my 
kindred  ?  " 


THE   ST.  PATRICK'S   BALL.  347 

"  No;  but  to  claim  your  estate  and  fortune,"  said  Talbot, 
hurriedly.  ' '  Do  you  not  perceive  the  date  of  this  document, 
■ — 1774,  —  and  that  you  only  attained  your  majority  on  last 
Christmas  Day  —  " 

"That  cannot  be,"  interrupted  Mark.  "I  joined  my 
father  in  a  loan  upon  the  estate  two  years  ago ;  the  sale  to 
Hemsworth  was  made  at  the  same  time,  and  I  must  have 
been  of  age  to  do  so." 

"  That  does  not  follow,"  said  Talbot,  smiling.  *'  It 
suited  the  objects  of  others  to  make  you  think  so;  but 
you  were  little  more  than  nineteen  at  the  time.  Here's 
the  certificate  of  your  mother's  marriage,  and  the  date  is 
February,  1773." 

Mark's  countenance  became  perfectly  bloodless,  his  lips 
grew  livid,  while  his  nostrils  were  alternately  distended 
and  contracted  violently  as  he  breathed  with  a  heaving 
effort. 

"You  have  your  choice,  therefore,"  said  Talbot,  flip- 
pantly, "to  believe  your  father  a  man  of  honor,  or  your 
mother  —  " 

"  Stop!  "  cried  Mark,  as  he  seized  his  arm  and  shook  it 
in  his  strong  grasp;  "speak  the  word,  and,  by  Heaven, 
you  '11  never  leave  this  spot  alive  !  " 

Talbot  seemed  to  feel  no  anger  at  this  savage  threat,  but 
calmly  said,  — 

"  It  was  not  my  wish  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Mark.  Yery 
little  reflection  on  your  part  might  convince  you  that  I  can 
have  no  object  to  serve  here  save  my  regard  for  you.  You 
seemed  to  doubt  what  I  said  about  your  age,  and  I  wished 
to  satisfy  you  at  once  that  I  was  correct.  You  were  not 
of  age  till  last  December.  A  false  certificate  of  birth  and 
baptism  enabled  your  father  to  raise  a  considerable  sum  of 
mone}^  with  your  concurrence,  and  also  permitted  him  to 
make  a  sale  to  Hemsworth  of  a  property  strictly  entailed 
on  you  and  yours.  Both  these  acts  were  illegal  and  un- 
just. If  Hemsworth  be  the  rightful  owner  of  that  estate, 
your  birth  is  illegitimate  —  nay,  nay  —  I  am  but  putting  the 
alternative,  which  you  cannot,  dare  not  accept.  You  must 
hear  me  with  temper,  Mark,  —  calmly  and  patiently.  It  is  a 
sad  lesson  when  one  must  learn  to  think  disparagingly  of 


348  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

those  they  have  ever  looked  up  to  and  revered.  But  remem- 
ber, that  when  your  father  did  this  act,  he  was  surrounded 
with  difficulties  on  every  hand.  There  seemed  no  escape 
from  the  dangers  around  him ;  inevitable  ruin  was  his  lot. 
He  doubtless  intended  to  apply  a  considerable  portion  of  this 
money  to  the  repak  of  his  shattered  fortunes.  Of  his  affec- 
tion for  you  there  can  be  no  question  — " 

"There,  there,"  said  Mark,  interrupting  him  rudely; 
"  there  is  no  need  to  defend  a  father  to  his  son.  Tell  me, 
rather,  why  you  have  revealed  this  secret  to  me  at  all,  and 
to  what  end  have  you  added  this  to  the  other  calamities  of 
my  fortune." 

He  stood  up  as  he  said  these  words,  and  paced  the  room 
with  slow  steps,  his  head  sunk  upon  his  bosom,  and  his 
arms  dropped  listlessly  at  his  side.  Talbot  looked  upon 
the  figure,  marked  with  every  trait  of  despondency,  and  for 
some  moments  he  seemed  really  to  sorrow  over  the  part  he 
had  taken;  then,  rallying  with  his  accustomed  energy,  he 
said,  — 

"If  I  had  thought,  Mark,  that  you  had  neither  ambition 
for  yourself  nor  hatred  for  an  enemy,  I  would  never  have 
told  you  these  things.  I  did  fancy,  however,  that  you 
were  one  who  struggled  indignantly  against  an  inglorious 
fortune,  and,  still  more,  believed  that  you  were  not  of  a 
race  to  repay  injury  with  forgetfulness.  Hemsworth,  you 
have  often  told  me,  has  been  the  insulting  enemy  of  your 
family.  Not  content  with  despoiling  you  of  fortune,  he 
has  done  his  utmost  to  rob  you  of  fair  fame,  —  to  reduce 
an  honored  house  to  the  Ignoble  condition  of  peasants,  and 
to  break  down  the  high  and  haughty  spirit  of  a  noble  family 
by  the  humiliating  ills  of  poverty.  If  you  can  forgive  hi& 
injuries,  can  you  forget  his  insults  and  his  taunts?  " 

"Would  you  have  me  repay  either  by  arraigning  my 
father  as  a  criminal?" 

"Not  so,  Mark;  many  other  courses  are  open  to  you. 
The  knowledge  of  this  fact  by  you  places  you  in  a  position 
to  make  your  own  terms  with  Hemsworth.  He  who  has 
spent  thirty  thousand  pounds  on  the  purchase  without  a 
title  must  needs  yield  to  any  conditions  you  think  fit  to 
impose.     You  have  but  to  threaten  —  " 


THE   ST.  PATRICK'S  BALL.  349 

"That  I  will  expose  my  father  in  a  court  of  justice," 
said  Mark,  between  his  teeth,  —  "  that  I  will  put  money  in 
one  scale,  and  the  honor  of  my  house  in  the  other,  —  that  I 
will  truck  the  name  and  credit  of  my  race  against  the  acres 
that  were  theirs.  No,  no;  you  mistake  me  much;  you 
know  little  of  the  kind  of  vengeance  my  heart  yearns  for, 
or  you  would  never  have  tempted  me  with  such  a  bait  as 
this." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Talbot,  coolly.  "Hemsworth  is  only 
the  luckier  man  that  has  met  such  a  temperament  as  yours 
to  deal  with;  a  vulgar  spirit  like  mine  would  have  turned 
the  tables  upon  him.  But  I  have  done;  keep  the  paper, 
Mark,  there  might  come  a  time  when  it  should  prove  useful 
to  you.  Hark!  what 's  that  noise  below?  Don't  you  hear 
that  fellow  Lawler's  voice  in  the  court-yard?"  and,  as  he 
spoke,  the  voice  of  the  host,  Billy  Crossley,  raised  very 
high  above  its  usual  pitch,  called  out,  — 

"I  tell  you,  gentlemen,  Mr.  Talbot  is  not  in  the  house; 
he  dined  out  to-day,  and  has  not  returned  since  dinner." 

A  confused  murmur  followed  this  announcement;  and 
again  Crossley  said,  but  in  a  still  louder  tone,  — 

"You  have  perfect  liberty  to  look  for  him  wherever  you 
please.  Don't  say  that  I  gave  you  any  impediment  or  hin- 
drance; follow  me, — I'll  show  you  the  way." 

Talbot  knew  in  a  moment  the  intention  of  the  speaker, 
and  recognized  in  Crossley' s  vehemence  an  urgent  warning 
to  himself. 

"I'm  tracked,  Mark,"  cried  he;  "there,  take  that  key; 
burn  the  papers  in  that  desk,  —  all  of  them.  At  seven  to- 
morrow, meet  me  on  the  strand;  if  all  be  safe,  I  '11  be  true 
to  time;  if  not  — " 

The  remainder  of  the  sentence  was  cut  short  by  the  hurry- 
ing sounds  of  feet  upon  the  stairs  and  Crossley' s  voice, 
which  in  its  loudest  key  continued  to  protest  that  Talbot 
was  not  in  the  house,  nor  had  he  seen  him  since  dinner. 
Mark  hastily  unlocked  the  desk  and  took  out  the  papers, 
but  when  he  turned  round  Talbot  was  gone;  a  tremulous 
motion  of  the  tapestry  on  the  wall  seemed  to  indicate  that 
his  escape  had  been  made  through  some  secret  door  behind 
it.     He  had  no  time,  however,  to  think  further  of  the  cir- 


350 


THE   O'DONOGHUE. 


cumstance,  for  scarcely  had  he  applied  the  lighted  candle 
to  the  papers  when  the  door  was  burst  violently  open,  and 
three  strange  men,  followed  by  Lanty  Lawler,  entered  the 
room,  while  Crossley,  whom  he  had  pushed  roughly  aside, 
stood  without,  on  the  lobby,  still  talking  as  loudly  as  before. 
"Is  that  him?  "  said  one  of  the  fellows,  who  seemed  like 
a  constable  in  plain  clothes. 


"No,"  whispered  Lanty,  as  he  skulked  behind  the 
shoulder  of  the  speaker,  "that's  another  gentleman." 

"Were  you  alone  in  this  apartment?"  said  the  same  man 
who  spoke  first,  as  he  addressed  Mark  in  the  tone  of 
authority. 

"It  is  rather  for  me  to  ask  what  business  you  have  to 
come  here  ? "  replied  Mark,  as  he  continued  to  feed  the 
flames  with  the  letters  and  papers  before  him. 

"You  shall  see  my  warrant  when  you  have  answered  my 
question.     Meanwhile  these  may  be  of  some  consequence," 


THE   ST.  PATEICK'S  BALL.  351 

said  the  other,  as,  approaching  the  hearth,  he  stooped  down 
to  seize  the  burning  papers. 

"They  do  not  concern  you,"  said  Mark,  as  he  placed  his 
foot  in  the  very  middle  of  the  blaze. 

"  Stand  back,  sir,"  cried  the  constable,  half  raising  his 
arm  to  enforce  the  command. 

"Lay  but  a  finger  on  me,"  said  Mark,  scornfully,  "and 
I  '11  dash  your  head    against  the  wall." 

The  insolence  of  his  threat  might  have  been  followed  by 
ill  consequences,  had  not  Lanty  sprung  hastily  forv\'ard, 
and,  catching  the  constable  by  the  arm,  cried  out,  — 

"It  is  the  O'Donoghue  of  Glenflesk,  a  young  gentleman 
of  rank  and  fortune." 

"  What  do  we  care  for  his  rank  or  fortune  ?  "  said  the 
other,  passionately.  "If  he  obstructs  the  King's  waiTant 
for  the  aiTest  of  a  traitor  or  a  felon,  I  value  him  no  more 
than  the  meanest  beggar  in  the  street.  Those  papers  there, 
for  all  I  know,  might  throw  light  on  the  whole  plot.'* 

"They  are  at  your  service,  now,"  said  Mark,  as  with  a 
kick  of  his  foot  he  dashed  the  blackened  embers  from  him, 
and  sent  them  in  floating  fragments  through  the  room. 

Unwilling  as  he  seemed  to  continue  a  contest  in  which 
his  authority  had  met  only  defiance,  the  constable  gave  the 
order  to  his  underlings  to  make  a  strict  search  of  the  apart- 
ment and  the  bedroom  which  opened  into  it,  during  which 
Mark  seated  himself  carelessly  in  an  arm-chair,  and  taking 
a  newspaper  from  the  table,   affected  to  read  it. 

Lanty  stood  for  a  few  seconds,  irresolute  what  to  do; 
then,  stealing  softly  behind  Mark's  chair,  he  muttered,  in  a 
broken  voice,  — 

"  If  I  thought  he  was  a  friend  of  yours.  Master  Mark  — 
But  it 's  no  matter;  I  know  he  's  off.  I  heard  the  gallop  of 
a  beast  on  the  stones  since  we  came  in.  "Well,  well,  I  never 
expected  to  see  you  here." 

Mark  made  no  other  reply  to  this  speech  than  a  steady 
frown,  whose  contemptuous  expression  Lanty  cowered 
under,   as  he  said  once  more,  — 

"It  was  n't  my  fault  at  all  if  I  was  obliged  to  come  with 
the  constables.  There  's  more  charges  nor  mine  against 
him,   the  chap  with  the  black  whiskers  says  — " 


352  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

"It 's  quite  clear,"  said  the  chief  of  the  party,  as  he  re- 
entered the  room,  —  "it 's  quite  clear  this  man  was  here  a 
few  minutes  since,  and  equally  so  that  you  know  of  his 
place  of  concealment.  I  tell  you  plainly,  sir,  if  you  con- 
tinue to  refuse  information  concerning  him,  I  '11  take  you 
as  my  prisoner.  I  have  two  warrants  against  him,  —  one 
for  highway  robbery,  the  other  for  treason." 

"AVhy  the  devil  have  you  no  informations  sworn  against 
him  for  murder?  "  said  Mark,  insolently;  for  the  language 
of  the  bailiff  had  completely  aroused  his  passion.  "Who- 
ever he  is  you  are  looking  for  seems  to  have  a  clear 
conscience." 

"  Master  Mark  knows  nothing  at  all  about  him,  I  '11  go 
bail  to  any  amount." 

"We  don't  want  your  bail,  my  good  friend,  we  want  the 
man  who  calls  himself  Harvey  Middletou  in  Herts,  Godfrey 
Middleton  in  Surre}",  the  Chevalier  Duchatel  in  France, 
Harry  Talbot  in  Ireland,  but  who  is  better  known  in  the 
police  sheet;"  and  here  he  opened  a  printed  paper,  and 
pointed  to  the  words,  "full  description  of  John  Barrington, 
convicted  at  the  Maidstone  assizes,  and  sentenced  to  fifteen 
years'  transportation." 

The  smile  of  insolent  incredulity  with  which  Mark  lis- 
tened to  these  imputations  on  the  honor  of  his  friend,  if  it 
did  not  assuage  the  anger  of  the  constable,  served  to  satisfy 
him  that  he  was  at  least  no  practised  colleague  in  crime, 
and  turning  to  Lanty,  he  talked  to  him  in  a  low  whisper  for 
several  minutes. 

"I  tell  ye,"  said  Lanty,  eagerly,  in  reply  to  some  remark 
of  the  other,  "his  worship  will  never  forgive  you  if  you 
arrest  him;  his  time  is  not  yet  come,  and  you'll  get  little 
thanks  for  interfering  where  ye  had  no  business." 

Whether  convinced  by  these  arguments,  or  deterred  from 
making  Mark  his  prisoner  by  the  conscious  illegality  of  the 
act,  the  man  collected  his  party,  and  having  given  them  his 
orders  in  a  low  voice,  left  the  room,  followed  by  the  others. 

A  gesture  from  Mark  arrested  Lanty  as  he  was  in  the  act 
of  passing  out.  "A  word  with  you.  Lanty,"  said  he,  firmly. 
"What  is  the  information  against  Talbot?  what  is  he 
accused  of?  " 


THE   ST.   PATRICK'S  BALL.  353 

"Sure  didn't  j^ou  hear  yourself,"  replied  Lanty,  in  a 
simpering,  mock  bashful  voice.  "They  say  he's  Barring- 
ton  the  robber,  and  faith,  they  've  strong  evidence  that 
they  're  not  far  out.  'T  is  about  a  horse  I  sold  him  that  I 
came  here.  I  didn't  want  to  harm  or  hurt  anybody,  and  if 
I  thought  he  was  a  friend  of  yours  — " 

"He  is  a  friend  of  mine,"  said  Mark,  ''and  therefore 
these  stories  are  but  one  tissue  of  falsehoods.  Are  you 
aware,  Lanty  "  —  and  here,  as  the  youth  spoke,  his  voice 
became  low  and  whispering,  —  "  are  you  aware  that  Talbot 
is  an  agent  of  the  French  Government;  that  he  is  over  here 
to  report  on  the  condition  of  our  part}^,  and  arrange  for  the 
rising?  " 

"  Is  it  in  earnest  you  are  ?  "  cried  Lanty,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  admirably  dissembled  astonishment.  "Are  you 
telling  me  truth,  Master  Mark?" 

"Yes,  and  more  still;  the  day  is  not  far  distant  now 
when  we  shall  strike  the  blow." 

"I  want  you  here,  my  worthy  friend,"  said  the  constable, 
putting  his  head  into  the  room,  and  touching  Lanty' s 
shoulder.  The  horse-dealer  looked  confused,  and  for  a 
second  seemed  undetermined  how  to  act ;  but  suddenly  re- 
covering his  composure,  he  smiled  significantly  at  Mark, 
wished  him  a  good  night,   and  departed. 


END   OF  VOL.   I. 
TOL.  I.  —  23 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Paob 

XXXIV.  The  Daybreak  on  the  Strand     .    •    .     .  1 

XXXV.  The  Wanderer's  Return 14 

XXXVI.  Suspicions  on  Every  Side 27 

XXXVII.  Hemsworth's  Letter 37 

XXXVIII.  Tampering  and  Plotting 44 

XXXIX.  The  Brothers 55 

XL.  The  Lull  before  the  Storm 62 

XLI.  A  Discovery 69 

XLII.  The  Shealing 81 

XLIII.  The  Confederates 91 

XLIV.  The  Mountain  at  Sunrise 95 

XLV.  The  Progress  of  Treachery 107 

XLVI.  The  Priest's  Cottage 116 

XLVIL  The  Day  of  Reckoning 125 

XL VIII.  The  Glen  and  the  Bay 139 

XLIX.  The  End 156 

ST.    PATRICK'S   EVE. 

The  First  Era 171 

The  Second  Era 196 

The  Third  Era 283 


^ 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 
Volume  Two. 


"Mark  made  a  dash  at  the  soldiers'*     .    •    •    •  .  147 

The  Kescue •    •    ,  ,  173 

miustratuins  in  tfje  SEeit. 

The  Wanderer's  Return «  .  20 

Hemsworth  visits  Lanby  in  Prison 50 

The  Shealing »  .  89 

Mark  Recognized  by  an  Old  Acquaintance  ...  *  163 


OF   THE 

uiMlVERSlTY 

OF 


THE  O'DONOGHUE: 

A  TALE  OF  IRELAND   FIFTY  YEARS  AGO. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

THE    DAYBREAK    ON    THE    STRAND. 

It  was  with  an  impatience  almost  amounting  to  madness 
that  Mark  O'Donoghue  awaited  the  dawn  of  day;  long 
before  that  hour  had  arrived  he  had  made  every  preparation 
for  joining  his  friend.  A  horse  stood  ready  saddled  await- 
ing him  in  the  stable,  and  his  pistols  —  the  weapons  Talbot 
knew  so  well  how"  to  handle  —  were  carefully  packed  in  the 
heavy  holsters.  The  time  settled  for  the  meeting  was  seven 
o'clock,  but  he  was  certain  that  Talbot  would  be  near  the 
place  before  that  hour,  if  not  already  there.  The  scene 
which  followed  Talbot's  escaiDe  also  stimulated  his  anxi- 
ety to  meet  with  him ;  not  that  any,  even  the  faintest,  sus- 
picion of  his  friend's  honor  ever  crossed  Mark's  mind, 
but  he  wished  to  warn  him  of  the  dangers  that  were  gather- 
ing around  him ;  for  were  he  arrested  on  a  suspicion,  who 
was  to  say  what  material  evidence  might  not  arise  against 
him  in  his  real  character  of  a  French  spy?  Mark's  was 
not  of  a  character  long  to  brood  over  doubtful  circum- 
stances, and  seek  an  explanation  for  difficulties  which  only 
assumed  the  guise  of  suspicions.  Too  prone  always  to  be 
led  by  first  impressions  of  everybody  and  everything,  he 
hated  and  avoided  whatever  should  disturb  the  opinions  he 
thus  hastily  formed.  When  matters  too  complicated  and 
knotty  for  his  immediate   comprehension  crossed  him,   he 

VOL.   II.  —  1 


Lt. 


2  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

turned  from  them  without  an  effort,  and  rather  satisfied 
himself  that  it  was  a  point  of  honor  to  "go  on  believing,'* 
than  harbor  a  doubt  even  where  the  circumstances  were 
calculated  to  suggest  it.  This  frame  of  mind  saved  him 
from  all  uneasiness  on  the  score  of  Talbot's  honor;  he  had 
often  heard  how  many  disguises  and  masks  his  friend  had 
worn  in  the  events  of  his  wild  and  dangerous  career,  and 
if  he  felt  how  incapable  he  himself  would  have  been  to  play 
so  many  different  parts,  the  same  reason  prevented  his 
questioning  the  necessity  of  such  subterfuges.  That  Harry 
Talbot  had  personated  any  or  all  of  the  persons  mentioned 
by  the  constable,  he  little  doubted,  and  therefore  he  re- 
garded their  warrant  after  him  as  only  another  evidence  of 
his  skill  and  cleverness ;  but  that  his  character  was  in  the 
least  involved  was  a  supposition  that  never  once  occurred 
to  him.  Amid  all  his  anxieties  of  that  weary  night  not 
one  arose  from  this  cause ;  no  secret  distrust  of  his  friend 
lurked  in  any  corner  of  his  heart;  his  fear  was  solely  for 
Talbot's  safety,  and  for  what  he  probably  ranked  as  highly, 
—  the  certainty  of  his  keeping  his  appointment  with 
Frederick  Travers ;  and  what  a  world  of  conflicting  feelings 
were  here !  At  one  moment  a  sense  of  savage,  unrelenting 
hatred  to  the  man  who  had  grossly  insulted  himself,  at  the 
next  a  dreadful  thrill  of  agony  that  this  same  Travers  might 
be  the  object  of  his  cousin's  love,  and  that  on  his  fate  her 
whole  happiness  in  life  depended.  Had  the  meeting  been 
between  himself  and  Travers,  had  the  time  come  round  to 
settle  that  old  score  of  insult  that  lay  between  them,  he 
thought  that  such  feelings  as  these  would  have  been  merged 
in  the  gratified  sense  of  vengeance;  but  now,  how  should 
he  look  on,  and  see  him  fall  by  another's  pistol?  —  how  see 
another  expose  his  life  in  the  place  he  felt  to  be  his  own? 
He  could  not  forgive  Talbot  for  this,  and  every  painful 
thought  the  whole  event  suggested  imbittered  him  against 
his  friend  as  the  cause  of  his  suffering.  And  yet,  was  it 
possible  for  him  ever  himself  to  have  challenged  Travers? 
Did  not  the  discovery  of  Kate's  secret,  as  he  called  it  to 
her,  on  the  road  below  the  cliff,  at  once  and  forever  prevent 
such  a  catastrophe?  Such  were  some  of  the  harassing 
reflections  which  distracted  Mark's  mind,  and  to  which  his 


THE  DAYBREAK  ON  THE  STRAND.         3 

own  wayward  temper  and  natural  excitability  gave  addi- 
tional poignancy;  while  jealousy,  a  passion  that  fed  and 
ministered  to  his  hate,  lived  through  every  sentiment  and 
tinctured  every  thought.  Such  had  been  his  waking 
and  sleeping  thoughts  for  many  a  day,  —  thoughts  which, 
though  lurking,  like  a  slow  poison,  within  him,  had  never 
become  so  palpable  to  his  mind  before;  his  very  patriotism, 
the  attachment  he  thought  he  felt  to  his  native  country,  his 
ardent  desire  for  liberty,  his  aspirations  for  national  great- 
ness, all  sprang  from  this  one  sentiment  of  hate  to  the 
Saxon,  and  jealousy  of  the  man  who  was  his  rival.  Fred- 
erick Travers  was  the  embodiment  of  all  those  feelings  he 
himself  believed  were  enlisted  in  the  cause  of  his  country. 

As  these  reflections  crowded  on  him  they  suggested  new 
sources  of  suffering,  and  in  the  bewildered  frame  of  mind 
to  which  he  was  noAv  reduced  there  seemed  no  possible 
issue  to  his  difficulties.  Mark  was  not,  however,  one  of 
those  who  chalk  out  their  line  in  life  in  moments  of  quiet 
reflection,  and  then  pursue  the  career  they  have  fixed  upon. 
His  course  was  rather  to  throw  passion  and  impulse  into 
the  same  scale  with  circumstances,  and  take  his  chance  of 
the  result.  He  had  little  power  of  anticipation,  nor  was 
his  a  mind  that  could  calmly  array  facts  before  it,  and  draw 
the  inferences  from  them.  No,  he  met  the  dangers  of  life 
as  he  would  have  done  those  of  battle,  with  a  heart  un- 
daunted and  a  spirit  resolved  never  to  turn  back.  The 
sullen  courage  of  his  nature,  if  it  did  not  suggest  hope,  at 
least  supplied  resolution;  and  how  many  go  through  life 
with  no  other  star  to  guide  them! 

At  last  the  gray  dawn  of  breaking  day  appeared  above 
the  house-tops,  and  the  low  distant  sounds  that  prelude  the 
movement  of  life  in  great  cities,  stirred  faintly  without. 

"Thank  Heaven,  the  night  is  over  at  last!  "  was  Mark's 
exclamation,  as  he  gazed  upon  the  leaden  streak  of  cloud 
that  told  of  morning. 

All  his  preparations  for  departure  were  made,  so  that  he 
had  only  to  descend  to  the  stable  and  mount  his  horse. 
The  animal,  he  was  told,  had  formerly  belonged  to  Talbot, 
and  nothing  save  the  especial  favor  of  Billy  Crossley  could 
have  procured  him  so  admirable  a  mount. 


4  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

•'He  has  never  left  the  stable,  sir,"  said  Billy,  as  he  held 
the  stirrup  himself,  —  ''  he  has  never  left  the  stable  for  ten 
days,  but  he  has  wind  enough  to  carry  you  two-and-twenty 
miles  within  the  hour,  if  you  were  put  to  it." 

"And  if  I  were,  Billy,"  said  Mark,  for  a  sudden  thought 
just  flashed  across  him,  — "if  I  were,  and  if  I  should  not 
bring  him  back  to  you,  his  price  is  — " 

"I  would  n't  take  a  hundred  guineas  for  him  from  any 
man  living,  save  Mr.  Talbot  himself;  but  if  it  were  a  ques- 
tion of  saving  him  from  danger,  or  any  man  he  deems  his 
friend,  then,  then,  sir,  I  tell  you  fairly,  Billy  Crossley  is  n't 
so  poor  a  man  but  he  can  afford  to  do  a  generous  thing. 
Take  him.  I  see  you  know  how  to  sit  on  him;  use  him 
well  and  tenderly,  keep  him  until  you  find  the  time  to  give 
him  back.  And  now  a  good  journey  to  you  wherever  you 
go;  and  go  quickly,"  whispered  Billy,  "for  I  see  two  fel- 
lows at  the  gate,  who  appear  listening  attentively  to  our 
conversation." 

"Take  that,  in  any  case,  as  a  pledge,"  said  Mark,  as  he 
pitched  a  purse,  containing  above  a  hundred  pounds  in 
gold,  towards  Crossley;  and,  before  the  other  could  inter- 
pose to  restore  it,  Mark  had  dashed  his  spurs  into  the 
beast's  flanks,  and  in  another  minute  was  hastening  down 
Thomas  Street. 

Mark  had  not  proceeded  far  when  he  slackened  his  pace 
to  a  walk ;  he  remembered  that  it  was  yet  two  hours  before 
the  time,  and,  with  the  old  spirit  of  a  horseman,  he  hus- 
banded the  qualities  of  the  noble  animal  he  bestrode. 
Whether  it  was  that,  as  the  moment  approached  which 
should  solve  some  of  the  many  difficulties  that  beset  him, 
or  that  the  free  air  of  the  morning  and  the  pleasure  he  felt 
on  being  once  more  in  the  saddle  had  rallied  his  mind  and 
raised  his  courage,  I  know  not  ;  but  so  it  was,  Mark's 
spirits  grew  each  instant  lighter,  and  he  rode  along  revolv- 
ing other  ones,  if  not  happier  thoughts,  such  as  were  at 
least  in  a  frame  more  befitting  his  youth  and  the  bold  heart 
that  beat  within  his  bosom.  The  streets  were  deserted, 
the  great  city  was  sleeping ;  the  thoroughfares  he  had  seen 
crowded  with  brilliant  equipages  and  hurrying;  masses  of 
foot-passengers  were  still  and  vacant;  and  as  Mark  turned 


I 


THE  DAYBREAK  ON  THE  STRAND.         5 

from  side  to  side  to  gaze  on  the  stately  public  edifices,  now 
sleeping  in  their  own  shadows,  he  thought  of  the  dreadful 
conflict  which,  perchance,  it  might  be  his  own  lot  to  lead  in 
that  same  city.  He  thought  of  the  wild  shout  of  the  in- 
surgent masses,  as  with  long-pent-up  but  now  loosened  fury 
they  poured  into  the  devoted  streets ;  he  fancied  the  swell- 
ing clangor  which  denoted  the  approach  of  troops,  ringing 
through  the  various  approaches,  and  the  clattering  sounds 
of  distant  musketry  as  post  after  post  in  different  parts  of 
the  town  was  assailed.  He  halted  before  the  Castle  gate, 
where  a  single  dragoon  sat  motionless  in  his  saddle,  his 
carbine  at  rest  beneath  his  long  cloak,  the  very  emblem  of 
peaceful  security;  and  as  Mark  gazed  on  him,  his  lip  curled 
with  an  insolent  sneer,  as  he  thought  over  the  false  security 
of  those  within;  and  that  proud  banner,  whose  lazy  folds 
scarce  moved  with  the  breath  of  morning.  "How  soon 
may  we  see  a  national  flag  replace  it !  "  were  the  words  he 
muttered,  as  he  resumed  his  way  as  slowly  as  before.  A 
few  minutes  after  brought  him  in  front  of  the  College.  All 
was  still  silent  in  that  vast  area,  along  which  at  noonday 
the  wealth  and  the  life  of  the  city  poured.  A  single  figure 
here  appeared,  —  a  poor  miserable  object  in  tattered  black, 
who  was  occupied  in  fixing  a  placard  on  the  front  of  the 
Post-office.  Mark  stopped  to  watch  him;  there  seemed 
something  sad  and  miserable  in  the  lot  of  this  one  poor 
creature,  singled  out,  as  it  were,  to  labor  while  others  were 
sunk  in  sleep.  He  drew  near,  and  as  the  paper  was  un- 
folded before  him,  read,  in  large  letters,  the  w^ords  "  Capital 
Felony  —  £.500  Reward;"  and  then  followed  a  description 
of  John  Barrington,  which  in  every  particular  of  height, 
age,  look,  and  gesture,  seemed  perfectly  applicable  to 
Talbot. 

"  Then,  sorra  one  of  me  but  would  rather  be  tearing  you 
down  than  putting  you  up,"  said  the  bill-sticker,  as,  with 
his  arms  folded  leisurely  on  his' breast,  and  his  ragged  hat 
set  sideways  on  his  head,  he  apostrophized  his  handiwork. 

"And  why  so,  my  good  fellow?"  said  Mark,  replying  to 
his  words. 

He  turned  round  rapidly,  and,  pulling  off  his  hat,  ex- 
claimed, in  an  accent  of  unfeigned  delight,  "Tear  an'  ages, 


6  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

captain,  is  it  yourself?  Och!  ocb!  no,"  added  he,  in  a 
tone  of  great  despondency;  "it  is  the  black  horse  that 
deceived  me.     I  beg  your  honor's  pardon." 

"  And  you  know  this  horse  ?  "  said  Mark,  with  some 
anxiety  of  manner. 

The  bill-sticker  made  no  answer,  but  carefully  surveyed 
Mark  for  a  few  moments  from  head  to  foot,  and  then,  as  if 
not  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  scrutiny,  he 
slowly  resumed  the  implements  of  his  trade,  and  prepared 
to  move  on. 

-  "  Stop  a  moment,"  said  Mark.  "I  know  what  you  mean: 
this  horse  belonged  to  —  "  and  he  pointed  with  his  whip  to 
the  name  on  the  placard.  "Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  then, 
for  I  am  his  friend,  — perhaps  the  nearest  friend  he  has  in 
the  world." 

"  Av  you  were  his  brother  you  don't  like  him  better  than 
I  do  myself.  I  '11  never  forget  the  night  he  got  his  head 
laid  open  for  me  on  the  bridge  there  beyant.  The  polls 
wanted  to  take  me  up  for  a  bit  of  a  ballad  I  was  singing 
about  Major  Sirr,  and  they  were  hauling  me  along  through 
the  gutter,  and  kicking  me  at  every  step,  when  up  comes 
the  captain,  and  he  sent  one  flying  here,  and  the  other 
flying  there,  and  he  tripped  up  the  chief,  calling  out  to  me 
the  whole  time,  'Run  for  it,  Dinny,  — run  for  it  like  a  man! 
I  '11  give  you  five  minutes  fair  start  of  them,  anyway.'  And 
he  kept  his  word,  though  one  of  them  cut  his  forehead 
clean  down  to  the  bone ;  and  here  I  am  now  sticking  up  a 
reward  to  take  him,  God  pardon  me!"  And  the  poor  fel- 
low uttered  the  last  words  in  a  voice  of  self-reproach  that 
actually  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes. 

Mark  threw  him  a  crown,  and  pressed  on  once  more ;  but 
somehow  the  convictions  which  he  had  resisted  before  were 
now  shaken  by  this  chance  meeting.  The  recognition  of 
the  horse  at  once  identified  Talbot  with  Barrington,  and 
although  Mark  rejected  altogether  any  thought  which  im- 
pugned the  honor  of  his  friend,  he  felt  obliged  to  believe 
that,  for  some  object  of  intrigue,  Talbot  had  assumed  the 
name  and  character  of  this  celebrated  personage.  The  very 
fact  of  his  rescuing  the  bUl-sticker  strengthened  this 
impression.     Such  an  act  seemed  far  more  in  unison  with 


THE  DAYBREAK  OX  THE  STRAND.         7 

the  wayward  recklessness  of  Talbot's  character  than  with 
the  bearing  of  a  man  who  might  thus  expose  himself  to 
capture.  With  the  subtlety  which  the  will  supplies  to  fur- 
nish arguments  for  its  own  conviction,  Mark  fancied  how 
readily  Talbot  might  have  made  this  personation  of  Bar- 
riugton  a  masterstroke  of  policy;  and  while  thus  he  rumi- 
nated, he  reached  the  sea-shore,  and  could  see  before  him 
that  long  bleak  track  of  sand  which,  uncovered  save  at 
high  tide,  is  called  ''the  Bull."  This  was  the  spot  ap- 
pointed for  the  meeting,  and,  although  now  within  half  an 
hour  of  the  time,  no  figure  was  seen  upon  its  bleak  surface. 
Mark  rode  on,  and  crossing  the  narrow  channel  of  water 
which  separates  '*  the  Bull "  from  the  mainland,  reached  the 
place  over  which,  for  above  two  miles  in  extent,  his  eye 
could  range  freely.  Still  no  one  was  to  be  seen;  the  light 
ripple  of  the  ebbing  tide  was  the  only  sound  in  the  stillness 
of  the  morning.  There  was  a  calmness  over  the  surface  of 
the  sea,  on  which  the  morning  sunbeams  were  slanting 
faintly,  and  glittering  like  freckled  gold,  wherever  some 
passing  breeze  or  shore-cui'rent  stirred  the  waters.  One 
solitary  vessel  could  be  seen,  and  she,  a  small  schooner, 
with  all  her  canvas  bent,   seemed  scarcely  to  move. 

Mark  watched  her  as  one  watches  any  object  which 
relieves  the  dreariness  of  waiting.  He  gazed  on  her  tall 
spars  and  white  sails  reflected  in  the  sea,  when  suddenly  a 
bright  flash  burst  from  her  side;  a  light-blue  smoke,  fol- 
lowed by  a  booming  sound,  rolled  forth,  and  a  shot  was 
seen  skimming  the  surface  of  the  water  for  above  a  mile  in 
her  wake ;  the  next  moment  a  flag  was  run  up  to  her  peak, 
when  it  fluttered  for  a  moment,  and  was  then  lowered  again. 
Mark's  experience  of  a  smuggling  life  taught  him  at  once 
to  recognize  these  signs  as  signals,  and  he  turned  his  gaze 
towards  the  laud  to  discover  to  whom  they  were  made;  but 
although  for  miles  long  the  coast  lay  beneath  his  view,  he 
could  see  nothing  that  corresponded  with  this  suspicion. 
A  single  figure  on  horseback  was  all  that  he  could  detect, 
and  he  was  too  far  off  to  observe  minutely.  Once  more 
Mark  turned  towards  the  ship,  which  now  was  feeling  a 
fresher  breeze  and  beginning  to  bend  beneath  it.  The 
white  curl  that  broke  from  her  bow,   and  rushed  foaming 


8  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

along  her  sides,  showed  that  she  was  making  way  through 
the  water,  not,  as  it  seemed,  without  the  will  of  those  on 
board,  for  as  the  wind  freshened  they  shook  out  their  main- 
sail more  fully,  and  continued  at  every  moment  to  spread 
sail  after  sail.  The  hollow  tramp  of  a  horse's  feet  gallop- 
ing on  the  strand  made  Mark  turn  quickly  round,  and  he 
saw  the  rider,  whom  he  had  observed  before,  bending  his 
course  directly  towards  him.  Supposing  it  must  be  Talbot, 
Mark  turned  to  meet  him,  and  the  horseman,  who  never 
slackened  his  speed,  came  quickly  within  view,  and  dis- 
covered the  features  of  Frederick  Travers.  He  was  unac- 
companied by  friend  or  servant,  and  seemed,  from  the 
condition  of  his  horse,  to  have  ridden  at  the  top  of  his 
speed.  Before  Mark  could  think  of  what  apology  he  should 
make  for,  or  how  explain  Talbot's  absence,  Travers  ad- 
dressed him ;  — 

'•I  half  feared  that  it  might  not  be  you,  Mr.  O'Dono- 
ghue,"  said  he,  as  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow, 
for  he  seemed  no  less  exhausted   than  his  horse. 

"I'm  alone,  sir,"  said  Mark;  "and  were  you  not  unac- 
companied by  a  friend,  I  should  feel  the  difficulty  of  my 
present  position  more  severely." 

"I  know  —  I  am  aware,"  said  Travers,  hurriedly,  "your 
friend  is  gone.  I  heard  it  but  an  hour  since;  you,  in  all 
likelihood,  were  not  aware  of  the  fact  till  you  saw  the  signal 
yonder." 

"What!  —Talbot's  signal!     Was  that  his?  " 

"Talbot,  or  Barrington,"  said  Travers,  smiling;  "per- 
haps we  should  better  call  him  by  the  name  he  is  best 
known  by." 

"And  do  you  concur  in  the  silly  notion  that  confounds 
Harry  Talbot  with  a  highwayman  ?  "  said  Mark,  sternly. 

"I  fear,"  said  Travers,  "that  in  doing  so,  I  but  follow 
the  impression  of  all  the  world.  It  was  not  the  least  clever 
thing  he  has  ever  done,  his  deception  of  you.  Be  assured, 
Mr.  O'Donoghue,  that  the  matter  admits  of  no  doubt.  The 
warrant  for  his  apprehension,  the  informations  sworn  against 
him,  are  not  only  plain  and  precise,  but  I  have  myself  read 
certain  facts  of  his  intimacy  with  you,  the  places  you  have 
frequented,  the  objects  for  which,   it  is  alleged,  you  were 


THE  DAYBREAK  ON  THE  STRAND.         9 

confederated,  —  all  these  are  at  this  raoinent  in  the  hands 
of  the  Secretary  of  State.  Forgive  me,  sir,  if  I  tell  you 
that  you  appear  to  have  trusted  too  implicitly  to  men  who 
were  not  guided  by  your  own  principles  of  honor.  This 
very  day  a  warrant  for  your  own  arrest  will  be  issued  from 
the  Privy  Council,  on  the  information  of  a  man,  whom,  I 
believe,  you  never  suspected.  He  is  a  horse-dealer  named 
Lawler,  — Lanty  Lawler." 

"And  he  has  sworn  informations  against  me?  '* 

"He  has  done  more;  he  has  produced  letters  written  by 
your  hand,  and  addressed  to  different  leaders  of  the  United 
Irish  party,  —  letters  whose  treasonable  contents  do  not 
admit  of  a  doubt." 

"And  the  scoundrel  has  my  letters ?  "  said  Mark,  as  his 
face  grew  purple  with  passion. 

"He  has  them  no  longer,"  said  Travers.  "Here  they 
are,  sir.  They  were  shown  in  confidence  to  my  father,  by 
one  who  certainly  is  not  your  friend.  Sir  Marmaduke 
asked  permission  to  let  me  see  them,  and  I  have  taken  on 
myself,  without  permission,  to  give  them  back  to  you." 

"At  whose  suggestion,"  said  Mark,  proudly,  "comes 
this  act  of  grace?  Is  it  your  father,  who  extends  his  pro- 
tection to  a  tenant,  or  is  it  yourself,  whose  wish  is  to 
humble  me  by  an  obligation?" 

"There  is  none,"  said  Travers,  frankly.  "I  believe  that 
scoundrels,  without  heart  or  courage,  have  laid  a  trap  for  a 
man  who  has  both  one  and  the  other.  I  do  not  desire  you 
should  accept  my  conduct  as  a  favor,  still  less  as  offering 
any  bar  to  such  a  reckoning  between  us  as  two  gentlemen 
of  equal  place  and  standing  may  demand  or  expect  from 
one  another." 

"Say  you  so,  indeed!"  cried  Mark,  as  his  eyes  flashed 
with  joy.     "Is  that  your  meaning?" 

"There's  my  hand  on  it,"  said  Travers,  "as  friend  or 
foe!" 

Mark  grasped  his  hand,  and  wrung  it  with  a  convulsive 
pressure. 

"Then  you  are  aware  that  you  owe  me  such  a  repara- 
tion ?  "  said  he,  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  emotion.  "  You 
do  not  forget  the  day  at  Carrignacurra ;  beside  the  hearth 
—  before  my  brother  ?  " 


10  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"I  remember  it  well,"  said  Travers.  "I  ask  your  pardon 
for  the  insult.  It  was  unworthy  of  me  to  have  made  the 
speech,  nor  have  I  been  on  good  terms  with  myself  since  I 
uttered  it." 

Mark  dropped  his  head,  and  uttered  not  a  word.  He 
could  better  have  looked  on  Travers  wounded  and  bleeding 
than  have  seen  him  thus  elevated  above  himself  by  temper 
and  manly  candor.  The  vengeance  he  had  yearned  after 
so  long  was  not  only  snatched  from  his  grasp,  but  in  the 
bitterness  of  disappointment  its  sting  was  turned  against 
himself. 

"This  would  be  an  unworthy  cause  of  quarrel,"  said 
Travers;  "one  of  which  I  could  not  but  feel  ashamed,  and 
wherein  you  could  have  no  pride.  If  we  are  not  to  be 
friends,  —  and  I  seek  no  man's  friendship  who  is  not  as 
willing  to  accept  of  mine,  —  if  we  are  not  to  be  friends,  let 
our  enmity  be  ratified  on  some  better  cause;  we  surely  can 
have  little  difficulty  in  finding  one." 

Mark  nodded  assentingly,  and  Travers  resumed,  — 

"  There  is  something  still  more  pressing  than  this.  My 
father  will  be  able  to  defer  the  issue  of  the  warrant  against 
you  for  three  days,  when  the  Privy  Council  will  again  be 
summoned  together.  Until  that  time  you  are  safe.  Make 
good  use  of  it,  therefore.  Leave  the  capital  —  reach  some 
place  of  security;  and,  after  some  time,  when  the  excite- 
ment of  the  affair  has  passed  away  —  " 

"By  a  due  expression  of  sorrow  and  penitence  I  might 
be  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  the  King's  pardon.  You 
were  about  to  say  so  much.     Is 't  not  so?" 

"Not  exactly,"  said  Frederick,  smiling;  "but  now  that 
the  Government  are  in  possession  of  the  secret  details  of 
this  plot,  and  thoroughly  aware  of  the  men  engaged  in  it, 
and  what  their  objects  are,  to  persist  in  it  would  be  hope- 
less foll3\  Believe  me,  the  chances  were  never  in  your 
favor,  and  at  present  you  have  not  a  single  one  left.  For 
your  sake,  Mr.  O'Donoghue,  this  is  most  fortunate.  The 
courage  that  would  seem  madness  in  a  hopeless  cause  will 
win  you  fame  and  honor  where  the  prospects  are  fairer. 
There  is  a  new  world  beyond  the  seas,  where  men  of  hardy 
minds  and  enterprising  spirits  achieve  rank  and  fortune,  — 
in  India,  where  war  has  all  the  features  of  chivalry,  where 


THE  DAYBREAK  ON  THE  STRAND.        H 

personal  daring  and  heroism  are  surer  roads  to  distinction 
than  influence  and  patronage ;  no  prize  will  be  too  high  for 
your  aspirations." 

Mark  was  silent,  and  Travers,  conjecturing  that  his 
words  were  sinking  into  his  heart,  with  a  persuasive  power 
went  on  to  re-picture  the  adventurous  life  which  should  open 
to  him  if  he  would  consent  to  leave  his  country,  and  seek 
fortune  beyond  the  seas.  As  he  continued  to  speak,  they 
rode  along  side  by  side,  and  at  last  came  to  that  part  of 
the  shore  where  a  road  branched  off.  Here  Mark  suddenly 
drew  up,   and  said,  — 

"  I  must  say  good-bye  here,  Mr.  Travers.  My  path  will 
lie  this  way  for  the  present.  Do  not  suspect  me  of  want 
of  feeling  because  I  have  not  thanked  you  for  the  part  you 
have  taken;  but,  in  truth,  you  have  averted  the  evil  from 
one  whose  life  has  nothing  worth  living  for.  You  have 
saved  me  from  a  danger,  but  I  am  without  a  hope. 
Betrayed  and  cheated  by  those  I  trusted,  I  have  little  care 
for  the  future,  because  I  have  no  confidence  in  anything. 
Nay,  nay,  —  don't  speak  of  that  again.  I  will  not  go  to 
India;  I  will  not  accept  of  favors  from  a  country  that  has 
been  the  enemy  of  my  own.  The  epaulette  which  you  wear 
with  honor  would  be  a  badge  of  disgrace  upon  my  shoulder. 
Good-bye ;  I  can  afford  to  thank  you,  because  you  have  not 
made  a  service  take  the  form  of  an  amende.'' 

Travers  forbore  to  press  him  further.  He  wisely  judged 
that  enough  had  been  done  for  the  present,  and  that,  his 
safety  being  provided  for,  time  and  opportunity  would  both 
present  themselves  for  the  remainder.  He  shook  his  prof- 
fered hand  with  cordiality,  and  they  separated,  Frederick 
to  return  to  Dublin,  Mark  to  wander  wherever  chance  might 
incline  him. 

"He  said  truly,"  exclaimed  Mark,  as  soon  as  he  once 
more  found  himself  separated  from  his  companion, — "he 
said  truly,  the  chances  were  never  in  our  favor,  and  at 
present  we  have  not  a  single  one  left.  The  cause  which 
depends  upon  such  elements  as  these  is  worse  than  hope- 
less." Such  were  the  words  that  broke  from  him  as,  in 
sorrow  and  humiliation,  he  remembered  the  character  of  his 
associates,  and  felt,  in  deep  shame,  the  companionship  he 


12  THE  ODONOGHUE. 

had  fallen  into.  "Had  there  been  but  one  true  to  me!** 
exclaimed  he,  in  accents  of  misery,  "I  could  have  stood 
against  the  shock,  stout-hearted;  but  to  find  all  false  — 
all!" 

Seeking  out  some  of  the  least  frequented  lanes,  he  rode 
on  for  several  miles,  caring  little  which  way,  so  long  as  he 
tni-ned  from  the  capital;  for  although  as  yet  no  personal 
danger  threatened  him,  a  nervous  sense  of  shame  made  him 
dread  the  sight  of  his  former  acquaintances.  Again  and 
again  did  the  thought  recur  to  him,  —  "  How  will  Kate  hear 
me  spoken  of?  In  what  light  will  ni}^  actions  be  displa^^ed 
to  her?  Is  it  as  the  miserable  dupe  of  such  a  wretch  as 
Lawler,  or  is  it  as  the  friend  and  chosen  companion  of 
Barrington,  I  would  be  known?  And  yet,  what  have  I  to 
fear,  to  whom  no  hope  is  left?" 

Among  the  many  sources  of  his  sorrow  one  recurred  at 
every  moment,  and  mingled  itself  with  every  other  thought: 
"  What  would  their  noble-hearted  friends  in  France  say  of 
them  ?  —  how  would  they  speak  of  a  land  whose  struggle  for 
freedom  is  stained  with  treachery,  or  which  cannot  number 
in  the  ranks  of  its  defenders  but  the  felon  or  the  outlaw?  " 

For  the  deceit  practised  on  the  people  he  felt  bitterly. 
He  knew  with  what  devotedness  they  followed  the  cause; 
the  privations  they  had  borne  in  silence,  awaiting  the  time 
of  retribution;  how  they  had  forborne  all  ebullitions  of 
momentary  passion,  in  expectation  of  the  day  of  a  greater 
reckoning ;  with  what  trust  they  obeyed  their  leaders ;  how 
implicitly  they  confided  in  every  direction  given  for  their 
guidance.  Can  patriotism  like  this  survive  such  a  trial? 
Will  they  ever  believe  in  the  words  of  their  chief  again? 
—  were  questions  which  his  heart  answered  despondingly. 

The  day  wore  over  in  these  sad  musings,  and  by  evening 
Mark,  who  had  made  a  wide  circuit  of  the  country,  arrived 
at  the  village  of  Lucan,  where  he  passed  the  night.  As 
day  was  breaking,  he  was  again  on  the  road,  directing  his 
steps  towards  Wicklow,  where,  in  the  wild  district  near 
Blessington,  he  had  acquaintance  with  several  farmers,  all 
sincerely  devoted  to  the  "United  Party."  It  was  as  much 
to  rescue  his  own  character  from  any  false  imputations  that 
might  be  cast  on  it,  as  from  any  hope  of  learning  favorable 


THE   DAYBREAK  ON  THE   STRAND.  13 

tidings,  that  be  turned  hither.  The  mountain  country,  too, 
promised  security  for  the  present,  and  left  him  time  to 
think  what  course  he  should  follow. 

Mark  did  not  miscalculate  the  good  feeling  of  the  people 
in  this  quarter.  No  success,  however  triumphant,  would 
have  made  him  one-half  so  popular  as  his  disasters  had 
done.  That  he  had  been  betrayed,  was  an  appeal  stronger 
than  all  others  to  their  best  affections ;  and  had  the  deliver- 
ance of  Ireland  depended  on  his  safety,  there  could  not 
have  been  greater  efforts  to  provide  for  it,  nor  more  heart- 
felt solicitude  for  his  own  comfort.  He  found,  too,  that 
the  treachery  of  individuals  did  not  shake  general  confi- 
dence in  the  success  of  the  plot,  so  much  hope  had  they  of 
French  assistance  and  co-operation.  These  expectations 
were  often  exaggerated,  because  the  victories  of  the  French 
armies  had  been  represented  as  triumphs  against  which  no 
opposition  availed;  but  they  served  to  keep  up  national 
courage,  and  the  theme  of  all  their  discourses  and  their 
ballads  was  the  same,  — "The  French  will  do  us  right." 

If  Mark  did  not  fully  concur  in  the  expectations  so  con- 
fidently formed,  he  was  equally  far  from  feeling  disposed 
to  throw  any  damper  on  them;  and  at  length,  as  by  daily 
intercourse  these  hopes  became  familiarized  to  his  mind,  he 
ended  by  a  partial  belief  in  that  future  to  which  all  still 
looked,  undismayed  by  past  reverses.  And  in  this  way 
time  rolled  on,  and  the  embers  of  rebellion  died  not  out, 
but  smouldered. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE    wanderer's    RETURN. 

It  was  about  two  months  after  the  events  detailed  in  the 
last  chapter,  on  the  evening  of  a  bright  day  in  midsummer, 
that  a  solitary  traveller  was  seen  descending  one  of  the 
mountain  passes  which  lead  from  Macroom  to  Glengariff, 
and  which  were  only  known  to  those  well  acquainted  with 
the  place.  He  led  his  horse  by  the  bridle,  for  the  ground 
did  not  admit  of  riding;  but  were  it  otherwise,  the  beast 
showed  too  many  signs  of  a  hard  journey  not  to  make  the 
course  advisable,  and,  in  this  respect,  both  horse  and  rider 
well  agreed.  The  man,  though  young  and  athletic,  was 
emaciated  and  weary-looking.  His  clothes,  once  good, 
seemed  neglected,  and  his  beard,  unshaven  and  uncared 
for,  gave  an  air  of  savage  ferocity  to  a  face  pale  and  care- 
worn, while  his  horse,  with  as  many  evidences  of  better 
days,  exhibited  unquestionable  signs  of  fatigue  and  bad 
feeding.  The  path  by  which  he  descended  was  the  cleft 
worn  by  a  mountain  torrent,  a  rough  and  rugged  road,  with 
many  spots  of  difficulty  and  danger;  but  neither  these  nor 
the  scene  which  unfolded  itself  in  the  glen  beneath,  attracted 
any  share  of  his  attention ;  and  yet  few  scenes  were  fairer 
to  look  upon.  The  sun  was  just  setting,  and  its  last  glories 
were  lighting  up  the  purple  tints  upon  the  mountains,  and 
shedding  a  flood  of  golden  hue  over  lake  and  river.  The 
bright  yellow  of  the  furze,  and  the  gay  colors  of  the  fox- 
glove, contrasted  with  the  stern  grandeur  of  the  dark  rocks, 
while  in  the  abundance  of  wild  holly  and  arbutus  which 
grew  from  even  the  most  precipitous  places,  the  scene  had 
a  character  of  seeming  cultivation  to  an  eye  unpractised  to 
the  foliage  of  this  lovely  valley.     The  traveller,  who,  for 


I 


THE   WANDERER'S   RETURN.  15 

•above  an  hour,  had  pursued  bis  way,  treading  with  the 
skill  of  a  mountaineer  over  places  where  a  false  step  might 
have  perilled  life,  and  guiding  his  horse  with  a  caution  that 
seemed  an  instinct,  so  little  of  his  attention  did  it  exact,  at 
last  halted,  and  leaning  his  arm  over  his  saddle,  stood  for 
some  time  in  contemplation  of  the  picture.  From  the  spot 
on  which  he  stood,  one  solitary  cabin  was  discernible  on 
the  side  of  the  road  that  wound  through'  the  valley,  and 
from  whose  chimney  a  thin  blue  smoke  slowly  curled,  and 
floated  along  the  mountain  side.  On  this  little  habitation 
the  traveller's  eyes  were  fixedly  bent,  until  their  gaze  was 
dimmed  by  a  passing  emotion.  He  drew  his  hand  roughly 
over  his  face,  as  if  angry  at  his  own  weakness,  and  was 
about  to  proceed  on  his  way,  when  a  shrill  whistle  from  a 
cliff  above  his  head  arrested  his  step.  It  was  a  mountain 
recognition  he  well  knew,  and  was  about  to  reply  to,  when 
suddenly,  with  a  bounding  speed  that  seemed  perilous  in 
such  a  place,  a  creature  clad  in  the  most  tattered  rags,  but 
with  naked  legs  and  bare  head,  came  springing  towards 
him. 

*'I  knew  you  from  the  top  of  Goorhaun  Dhub,  — I  knew 
you  well,  Master  Mark.  There  's  not  many  with  a  good 
coat  on  their  back  could  venture  over  the  way  you  came, 
and  I  said  to  myself  it  was  you,"  cried  Terry  the  Woods, 
as,  with  his  pale  features  lit  up  in  smiles,  he  welcomed  the 
young  O'Donoghue  to  his  native  hills. 

"How  are  they  all  yonder?"  asked  Mark,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  above  a  whisper,  pointing  with  his  finger  up  the 
glen  in  the  direction  of  Carrignacurra,  but  which  was  not 
visible  from  where  they  were. 

"I  saw  the  master  yesterday,"  replied  Terry,  who  applied 
to  the  O'Donoghue  the  respected  title  by  which  he  was 
known  in  his  own  household.  "He  was  sitting  on  a  big 
chair  at  the  window,  and  the  young  girl  with  the  black 
eyes  was  reading  to  him  out  of  a  book ;  but  sorra  much  he 
was  mindin'  it,  for  when  he  seen  me  he  beckoned  this  way, 
and  says  he,  'Terry,  you  villain,  why  don't  you  ever  come 
up  here  now  and  talk  to  me?  '  'Faix,'  says  I,  *I  have  n't 
the  heart  to  do  it.  Since  Master  Mark  was  gone,  I  did  n't 
like  the  place;  '    and  the  master  wiped  his  eyes,   and   the 


16  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

young  girl  made  a  sign  to  me  not  to  speak  about  that  any 
more." 

"  And  who  is  at  the  Lodge  now  ?  "  asked  Mark,  endeavor- 
ing to  restrain  any  semblance  of  emotion  even  before 
Terry. 

"There  's  nobody  but  the  agent.  The  family  is  over  in 
England  till  the  house  is  ready  for  them.  Oh,  then,  but 
you  '11  wonder  to  see  the  illigaut  place  it  is  now,  wid  towers 
and  spires  all  over  it,  —  the  ground  all  gardens,  with  grass 
walks  as  fine  as  a  carpet,  and  the  beautifullest  flowers 
growin'  against  the  walls  and  up  against  the  windows,  and 
a  fountain,  as  they  call  it,  of  cool  water  spouting  up  in  the 
air,   and  coming  down  like  rain." 

"And  my  brother,  — where  is  he?  " 

"He  's  over  in  England  with  the  family  from  the  Lodge; 
the  black-eyed  girl.  Miss  Kate,  would  n't  go.  They  say  — 
but  there  's  no  knowing  if  it 's  true  —  they  say  she  likes 
Hemsworth  better  than  the  captain ;  and,  truth,  if  she  does, 
it 's  a  dhroll  choice." 

"Likes  Hemsworth!  Do  they  say  that  my  cousin  likes 
Hemsworth?"  said  Mark,  whose  anger  was  only  kept  down 
by  gazing  on  the  tranquil  features  of  the  poor  witless  object 
before  him. 

"They  do,"  said  Terry,  quietly,  "and  it's  rasonable,  too, 
seein'  that  he  's  never  out  of  the  house  from  morning  till 
night." 

"What  house,  —  where  do  you  mean?  " 

"What  house  but  Carrignacurra,  — your  father's  house." 

Mark  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  over  his 
closed  eyelids,  and  for  a  second  or  two  seemed  trying  to 
dispel  some  horrible  vision;  for,  deep-rooted  as  was  his 
jealousy  of  Frederick  Travers,  his  most  gloomy  forebod- 
ings had  never  conjured  up  the  thought  of  such  a  rival  as 
Hemsworth,  nor  did  he  now  credit  it.  His  indignation 
was,  however,  scarcely  less  to  think  that  this  man  should 
now  be  received  on  terms  of  intimacy,  perhaps  of  friend- 
ship, by  those  he  so  long  pursued  with  insult  and  oppres- 
sion. He  paid  no  attention  to  Terry  as  he  continued  to 
narrate  the  changes  effected  in  his  absence,  and  the  various 
surmises  current  among  the  people  to  account  for  his  long 


THE  WANDERER'S  RETURN.  17 

absence,  when  at  length  they  approached  the  high  road  that 
led  up  the  valley.  Here  Terry  halted,  and  pointing  in  the 
direction  of  Mary's  cabin,  about  half  a  mile  distant, 
said,  — 

'•  I  can't  go  any  farther  with  you.     I  dar'  n't  go  there." 

"And  why  not,  my  poor  fellow?"  said  Mark,  compas- 
sionately, for  the  terror  depicted  in  his  face  too  plainly 
indicated  the  return  of  some  hallucination. 

"They  're  there,  now,"  said  Terry,  in  a  faint  whisper, 
"watching  for  me.  They're  five  weeks  waiting  to  catch 
me,   but  if  I  keep  in  the  mountains  I  needn't  care." 

•'And  who  are  they,  Terry?" 

"The  soldiers,"  said  Terry,  trembling  all  over.  "I  ran 
away  from  them,  and  they  want  to  shoot  me  for  desarting." 

'"And  there  are  soldiers  quartered  at  Mary's  now?  " 

"Ay,  and  at  Macroom,  and  at  Bantry,  and  Kinsale,  — 
they  have  them  all  round  us ;  but  divil  a  one  o'  me  cares ; 
so  long  as  they  keep  to  the  towns,  I  '11  never  trouble  them." 

"And  how  does  poor  Mary  bear  it?  "  said  Mark. 

''Bad  enough,  I  hear,  for  nobody  ever  goes  into  the  house 
at  all  since  she  had  the  red-coats,  and  then  she  's  pining 
away  every  day;  but  I  must  be  going.  I  '11  come  down 
and  see  you  soon.  Master  Mark,  and  I  hope  you  won't  lave 
us  in  a  hurry  again."  Terry  did  not  wait  for  any  rejoinder 
to  this  speech,  but  with  the  agility  of  his  wild  life,  sprang 
lightly  up  the  mountain,  from  whence  his  voice  was  heard 
gayly  carolling  as  he  went,  long  afterwards. 

Mark  looked  after  him  for  a  few  moments,  and  probably 
amid  the  compassionate  feelings  with  which  he  regarded 
the  poor  creature,  there  were  mingled  others  of  actual  envy, 
so  light-hearted  and  happy  did  he  seem  amidst  all  his 
poverty. 

"I  could  even  change  with  him,"  said  Mark,  aloud;  and 
then,  as  if  he  had  unburdened  his  heart  of  its  weary  load, 
he  resumed  his  way. 

The  gray  twilight  was  fast  merging  into  night  as  he 
approached  the  little  inn,  nor  was  it  without  emotion  that  he 
watched  the  light  that  streamed  from  the  windows  across 
the  road.  Many  an  evening  of  his  happy  boyhood  had 
been  passed  beside  that  humble  hearth;   many  a  thrilling 

VOL.  II.  —  2 


18  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

tale  and  many  a  merry  story  had  lie  listened  to  there. 
Beneath  that  roof  it  was  he  first  imbibed  the  proud  thoughts 
of  his  house  and  family,  and  learned  to  know  the  estima- 
tion in  which  men  held  his  name.  It  was  there  he  first  felt 
the  spirit  of  chieftainship,  and  there,  too,  he  had  first 
devoted  himself  to  the  cause  of  his  country.  Alas !  these 
were  but  sad  memories,  how  he  had  lived  to  find  himself 
deceived  by  every  one  he  had  trusted;  falsehood  and 
treachery  in  so  many  shapes  surrounded  him,  that  it  needed 
only  the  extinction  of  hope  to  make  him  feel  his  life  a 
weary  and  unprofitable  load.     He  stood  for  a  few  seconds  ; 

before  the  door,  and  listened  with  an  indignant  spirit   to  I 

the  coarse   revelry  of  the   soldiers   who    caroused    within.  j 

Their  very  laughter  smote  upon  his  ear  like  derision,  and  I 

he  turned  away  from  the  spot,  angry  and  impatient.     Some  ;■ 

vague  resolve  to  return  home  and   take  a  last  farewell  of  | 

his  father,    was  the   only  plan  he  could  fix  on;   whither,  ■' 

afterwards,   or  how,   he  knew  not,  nor  did  he  care.     Like  i 

most  men  who  attribute  their  failures  in  life  to  evil  desti-  | 

nies  that  sway  them,  and  not  to  their  own  faults  and  follies,  j 

his  fatalism  urged  him  to  a  recklessness  of  the  future,  and  |^ 

in  place  of  hope  there  sprang  up  in  his  heart  a  strange 
feeling  of  wonder  to  think  what  trials  and  straits  fortune 
might  yet  have  in  store  for  him.  He  often  deliberated  with 
himself  how  he  should  meet,  and  how  part  with  his  father, 
—  whether  acknowledge  that  he  knew  the  secret  of  the 
deceit  that  had  been  practised  upon  him,  or  whether  he 
should  conceal  that  knowledge  within  his  own  bosom.  To 
do  the  latter  was  his  final  resolve.  To  spare  the  old  man 
the  added  misery  of  knowing  that  his  son  had  detected  his 
criminality,  was  the  suggestion  of  his  better  and  purer 
feeling,  and  even  though  his  leaving  him  should  thus  be 
wanting  in  the  only  excuse  he  could  proffer,  he  preferred 
this  to  the  misery  another  course  would  entail. 

At  last  he  reached  the  old  gateway,  and  often  as  it  had 
been  his  lot  to  bring  beneath  its  shadow  a  heavy  and  sor- 
row-struck heart,  never  had  he  passed  it  so  deeply  depressed 
as  now. 

"Come  on,  good  beast,"  he  said,  patting  the  wearied 
horse,  "  you  shall  have  rest  here ;  and  that,"  said  he,  with  a 
sigh,  —  "  that  is  more  than  I  can  promise  to  myself." 


THE   WANDERER'S   RETURN.  19 

With  these  sad  words  he  toiled  up  the  steep  ascent,  and 
gained  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  castle.  There  were  lights 
burning  in  the  old  tower  and  in  the  hall,  but  all  the  rest  of 
the  building  was  in  darkness.  The  door  lay  open,  and,  as 
Mark  stood  within  it,  he  could  hear  the  mellow  sounds  of 
a  harp  which  came  floating  through  the  long-vaulted  corridor, 
blended  with  a  voice  that  stirred  the  fibres  of  his  strong 
heart,  and  made  him  tremble  like  a  child. 

"Why  should  I  not  linger  here?"  thought  he  —  "why 
not  stay  and  listen  to  these  sweet  sounds?  I  shall  never 
hear  them  more !  "  And  he  stood  and  bent  his  ear  to  drink 
them  in,  and  stirred  not  until  they  ceased.  The  last  chord 
had  died  away  in  silence,  then,  hastily  fastening  his  horse  to 
the  door-ring,  he  entered  the  long  passage  unnoticed  by  any, 
and  reached  the  door.  The  sound  of  voices,  as  of  persons 
talking  pleasantly  together,  struck  harshly  on  his  ear,  and 
the  loud  laughter  that  burst  forth  grated  strangely  on  his 
senses. 

"They  have  little  sorrow  for  the  outcast,  that  is  certain," 
said  he,  as,  with  a  swelling  heart  and  proud  step,  he  opened 
the  door  and  entered. 

This  part  of  the  room  lay  in  deep  shadow,  and  while 
Mark  could  distinctly  perceive  the  others,  they  could  but 
dimly  discern  the  outline  of  his  figure,  without  being  able 
to  recognize  him.  His  father  and  Sir  Archy  were  seated, 
as  of  old,  on  either  side  of  the  chimney ;  Kate  was  leaning 
over  her  harp,  which  she  had  just  ceased  to  play,  while, 
seated  near  her,  and  bending  forward  in  an  attitude  of 
eager  attention,  was  Hemsworth  himself,  the  man  of  all 
others  he  least  wished  to  see  at  such  a  moment. 

"  Who  is  that?  "  cried  the  O'Donoghue,  —  "  who  is  stand- 
ing yonder?"  And  they  all  turned  their  eyes  towards  the 
door. 

"Why  don't  you  speak?  "  continued  the  old  man.  "Have 
you  any  tidings  from  my  son  ?  —  is  it  news  of  Mark  you 
bring  me  ?  " 

"  Even  so,  sir,"  responded  the  other,  as  he  slowly  ad- 
vanced into  the  strong  light,  his  arms  folded  upon  his  breast, 
and  his  brow  stern  and  contracted. 

"Mark!  —  my    boy!    my    child!"    cried    the    old    man. 


20 


THE   O'DONOGIIUE. 


springing  from  his  chair,  and,  with  a  strength  that  seemed 
at  once  to  defy  age  and  infirmity,  rushed  towards  him,  and 
threw  his  arms  about  him.  '*He's  here  —  he's  with  us 
'  "    said  he,  in    accents  half    choked  by  sobs  — 


once   more 


*'  my  son  !  my  hope  !  my  pride  !  "     And  while  the  old  man 
poured  forth  these  words  of  happiness,  the  young  one  stood 


pale,  cold,  and  seemingly  apathetic.  His  eyes  bent  on 
vacancy,  and  his  features  devoid  of  all  expression  of  passion, 
he  turned  from  Sir  Archy,  who  grasped  one  hand,  and  looked 
at  Kate,  who  held  the  other  between  hers,  but  in  his  gaze 
there  was  rather  the  look  of  one  suddenly  recalled  to  con- 
sciousness out  of  some  long-fevered  sleep  than  the  healthful 
aspect  of  waking  life. 

**You  are  not  ill,  3Iark  —  you're  only  fatigued,"  said 
Kate,  as  a  tear  slowly  trickled  down  her  cheek,  and  fell  upon 
his  hand. 


THE   WANDERER'S  RETURN.  21 

Mark  started  as  he  felt  the  drop,  and  looked  at  her  with  a 
searching  glance  ;  then  turned  his  eyes  towards  Hemsworth, 
and  back  again  to  her,  and,  for  the  first  time,  a  stern  and 
scornful  smile  curled  upon  his  lip.  Kate  seemed  to  read 
the  glance,  and  returned  it  with  a  look  proud  and  haughty 
as  his  own,  while,  dropping  his  hand,  she  walked  towards 
her  chair  without  speaking. 

"  We  maun  let  him  hae  a  bit  supper  as  soon  as  may  be,'* 
said  Sir  Archy,  whose  practical  good  sense  saw  how  much 
bodily  fatigue  influenced  the  youth's  demeanor. 

"Supper!"  said  the  O'Donoghue.  "Ay,  faith,  every 
bottle  in  the  cellar  would  be  too  little  to  celebrate  the  boy's 
return!  Ring  that  bell,  Archy.  Where  is  Kerry?  What 
are  the  people  doing  not  to  know  that  their  young  master 
is  here  ?  " 

''  At  another  moment,  I  should  beg  that  Mr.  O'Donoghue 
might  remember  me,"  said  Hemsworth,  with  a  deferential 
bow.  ''  And  I  hope  the  time  is  coming  when  I  may  be 
permitted  to  renew  m}^  acquaintance.  For  the  present,  I 
feel  how  unsuited  the  presence  of  a  stranger  is,  on  an  occa- 
sion like  this,  and  cannot  better  show  how  deeply  I  appre 
ciate  feeling  than  by  taking  m}^  leave." 

So  saying,  he  courteously  saluted  the  O'Donoghue,  Sir 
Archy,  and  Kate ;  while,  turning  to  Mark,  he  proffered  his 
hand,  as  he  said,  — 

*^  Pray,  sir,  let  the  occasion  excuse  the  liberty,  and  per- 
mit me  to  add  my  welcome  also." 

"  You  do  the  honors  of  this  house  too  early,  sir,"  was 
Mark's  savage  reply,  while  he  folded  his  arms  upon  his 
breast,  and  measured  Hemsworth  with  a  glance  of  withering 
scorn.  "I'm  beneath  my  father's  roof.  It  is  not  for  a 
stranger  to  bid  me  welcome  here." 

Hemsworth  smiled  and  muttered  some  words  in  mild 
acquiescence ;  their  tone  and  accent  were  apologetic,  and 
the  manner  in  which  he  spoke  them  humble  even  to  humility. 
When  they  were  uttered,  he  bowed  deeply,  and  with  a  look 
towards  the  others  that  seemed  to  indicate  the  absence  of 
any  feeling  of  offence,  withdrew. 

"  You  are  unco  severe  on  Mister  Hemsworth,  Mark,"  said 
Sir  Archy,  gravely.  "If  his  politeness  was  na  altogether 
correct,  it  was  weel  intended." 


22  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"  Mark  was  all  right,  whatever  he  said,"  cried  the  old 
man,  exultiugly.  "Egad!  I'll  not  dispute  with  the  boy 
to-night,  if  he  thought  proper  to  throw  the  fellow  out  of  the 
window." 

"  I  am  sorry  my  rudeness  should  have  offended  others," 
said  Mark,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  Kate.  "  As  for  Mr. 
Hemsworth,  we  understand  each  other.  He  neither  thinks 
better  nor  worse  of  me  than  he  did  before." 

"  D  —  n  Hemsworth  !  "  said  the  O'Donoghue.  "  Why  are 
we  talking  of  him  at  all  ?  Sit  down  beside  me,  Mark.  Let 
me  see  you  again,  ray  bo}',  in  your  old  place.  Give  me  your 
hand,  and  let  me  think  that  my  three  months  of  fretting  have 
only  been  a  dream." 

"  Would  it  had  been  a  dream  to  me !  "  said  Mark,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  as  he  seated  himself  beside  the  old  man. 

"Come,  come.  Mark,"  said  Sir  Archy ;  "ye  hae  often 
laughed  at  my  Scotch  adage  about  '  byganes,'  let  me  have 
my  revenge  now,  by  applying  it  to  your  own  fortunes." 

"  So,  you  have  come  at  last,"  cried  the  O'Donoghue,  as 
Kerry  O'Leary  at  length  made  his  appearance  at  the  door. 
"Is  Master  Mark  to  go  supperless  to  bed?" 

"Master  Mark!  "  shouted  Kerry.  "Oh,  murther  alive  I 
and  is  it  himself  that's  in  it?  Oh,  blessed  hour!  but  I'm 
glad  to  see  you  home  again,  and  your  honor  looking  so  well 
and  hearty.  Maybe  we  won't  have  bonfires  over  the  hills, 
when  the  boys  hear  it." 

"The  supper!  the  supper!  Confound  the  fellow!  the 
boy  is  famished,  and  the  rascal  stands  prating  there  about 
bonfires." 

"My  horse  is  far  more  in  need  of  care  than  I  am,"  said 
Mark,  suddenly  remembering  the  wearied  animal  he  left 
fastened  to  the  door.  "  I  must  look  to  the  poor  beast  before 
I  take  anything  myself."  And  so  saying  he  left  the  room, 
none  wishing  to  gainsay  an3'thing  he  desired  to  do. 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  "how  pale  and 
careworn  he  looks.  —  he  appears  to  have  suffered  heavily." 

"  Depend  upon  it,"  said  Sir  Archy,  gravely.  "  the  lad  has 
learned  much  since  we  saw  him  last.  I  dinna  mislike  the 
look  his  features  have,  although  it  be  one  of  sorrow.  What 
says   Kate?"     No    answer    followed    this    appeal,    but   the 


I 


THE   WANDERER'S   RETURN.  23 

young  girl  turned  away  her  bead,  and  affected  to  assist  in 
arranging  the  table. 

"  Mind,  Archy,"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  eagerly  ;  "  remem- 
ber, not  a  word  about  bis  absence,  —  no  questioning  what- 
ever; the  boy  has  gone  through  too  many  troubles  already 
to  bear  the  penalty  of  relating  them.  Take  care,  too,  that 
there  be  no  allusion  to  Hemsworth  ;  Mark  does  not  yet  know 
the  friendly  part  he  has  taken,  and  only  knows  him  as  we 
used  to  think  and  speak  of  him  of  old.  But  hush !  here  he 
comes." 

When  Mark  re-entered  the  room,  be  seemed  at  least 
easier,  if  not  happier  than  before.  The  cloud  that  Hems- 
worth's  presence  threw  over  him  had  passed  away,  and  he 
feit  anxious  to  show  himself  in  more  favorable  colors  than 
his  first  appearance  had  displayed.  While,  therefore,  he  did 
bis  utmost  to  repay  to  his  father  and  uncle  the  kind  and 
affectionate  greetings  by  which  they  met  him,  to  his  cousin 
Kate  he  was  either  sternly  distant,  or  totally  indifferent  in 
manner ;  and  when  at  last,  repulsed  in  many  efforts  to 
attract  his  notice,  she  arose  to  retire  for  the  night,  be  took  a 
formal  leave  of  her,  and  seemed  relieved  by  her  departure. 
This  was  not  remarked  by  the  O'Donoghue ;  but  Sk  Archy 
was  a  shrewd  observer,  and  noted  the  circumstance  with 
displeasure :  still,  too  careful  of  consequences  to  show  that 
he  had  observed  it,  be  reserved  bis  interference  for  another 
and  more  favorable  moment,  and  soon  afterwards  wished 
them  good  night,  and  left  the  room. 

"It  is  time  for  me  to  go  also,"  said  Mark,  as,  after  a 
silence  of  some  moments,  he  arose  and  lighted  a  candle. 
*'I  have  not  been  accustomed  to  a  good  bed  latterly,  and 
I  feel  that  one  sound  night's  sleep  is  due  to  me." 

"  But  for  that,  Mark,  I  could  not  part  with  you  just  yet. 
I  have  so  much  to  say,  —  so  much  to  bear  from  you.  There 
have  been  many  things  during  your  absence  I  must  tell 
you  of." 

"  And  first  of  all,"  said  Mark,  rapidly,  "  bow  comes  that 
man  Hemsworth  so  intimate  here?  What  claim  has  be  to 
darken  our  door  with  his  presence  ?  " 

"  The  strong  claim  of  true  friendship,"  said  the  old  man, 
firmly,  —  "a  claim  I  have  not  met  so  much  of  in  life  that 


24  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

I  can  afford  to  undervalue  it  when  it  does  present  itself. 
But  for  him  the  ejectment  would  have  been  sued  out  last 
assizes ;  he  saved  us  also  from  a  foreclosure  of  Drake's 
mortgage,  —  advanced  me  five  thousand  pounds  upon  my 
own  bond,  Archy  being  a  co-surety,  which  you  well  know 
was  a  matter  of  form.  This,  besides  saving  us  from  any 
proceedings  the  Traverses  might  have  taken,  in  revenge 
for  their  disappointment  about  Kate  —  " 

''  Speak  more  plainly,  I  beg  you,  sir,  and,  above  all, 
please  to  remember  I  am  ignorant  of  everything  you  allude 
to.     What  of  Kate?" 

"Oh,  I  forgot  you  were  not  with  us  then.  It  was  a 
proposal  of  marriage.  Young  Travers  made  your  cousin 
a  brilliant  offer,  as  far  as  money  was  concerned,  which  Kate 
refused.  There  was  some  negotiation  about  leaving  the 
thing  open ;  something  about  the  future,  —  I  forget  ex- 
actly what;  but  I  only  know  she  was  peremptory  and 
decided,  as  she  always  is,  and  wrote  to  me  to  take  her 
home.  Archy  went  up  for  her  to  Dublin,  and  the  Trav- 
erses soon  after  left  Ireland  in  high  indignation  with  us, 
and  determined,  as  we  soon  found,  to  let  us  feel  their  en- 
mity. Then  it  was  that  we  learned  to  appreciate  Hems- 
worth,  whom  all  along  we  had  so  completely  mistaken ; 
and,  indeed,  but  for  him,  we  should  never  have  heard  of 
you." 

"Of  me!     What  did  he  know  of  me?'' 

"Everything,  Mark,  —  all,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  low 
whisper,  as  he  stole  a  prying  glance  through  the  room  to 
satisfy  himself  that  they  were  not  overheard. 

"  Once  more,  sir,  speak  out,  and  intelligibly,  —  say  what 
this  man  assumes  to  know  of  me." 

"  He  knew  Talbot  —  Barrington,  rather,"  said  the  O'Don- 
oghue,  in  a  low  voice,  — "  knew  of  your  intercourse  with 
him ;  knew  of  the  plot  that  fellow  laid  to  entangle  you 
in  his  schemes;  knew  all  about  the  robbery  at  the  Cur- 
ragh,  and  saved  you,  without  your  knowing  it,  from  being 
there.  But  for  him,  Mark,  your  name  would  have  figured 
in  the  'Hue  and  Cry.'  A  reward  for  your  apprehension 
was  actually  deliberated  at  the  Privy  Council.  Hemsworth 
rescued  you  from  this  —  " 


THE   WANDERER'S   RETURN.  25 

''  The  scoundrel,  —  the  base,  black-hearted  villain,"  ex- 
claimed Mark,   "did  he  dare  to  speak  thus  of  me?'' 

"You  mistake,  Mark,  he  never  said  you  were  culpable, 
he  only  deplored  the  fatal  accident  of  your  intimacy  with 
Harrington,  —  a  man  twice  convicted  and  sentenced;  that 
in  company  with  this  man  you  frequented  certain  houses  of 
high  play,  where  more  than  one  large  robbery  was  effected. 
Then  came  the  Castle  ball,  —  was  it  not  true  that  you  went 
there?  AVell,  the  diamond  snufif-box  stolen  from  Lord 
Clangoff ,  at  the  card-table  —  " 

"Hell  and  confusion!  you  will  drive  me  mad,"  cried 
Mark,  stamping  his  foot  with  passion.  "  This  infernal  mix- 
ture of  truth  and  falsehood,  —  this  half-fact  and  all-lying 
statement,  —  is  more  than  my  brain  can  bear.  What  does 
this  scoundrel  mean,  —  is  it  that  I  am  guilty  of  a  robbery  ? " 

"Heaven  forbid,  boy;  but  that  you  lived  on  terms  of 
closest  friendship  with  one  branded  as  a  felon,  and  that 
information  of  your  intimacy  with  him  was  obtained  by  the 
police,  who,  for  political  reasons,  —  you  are  aware  of  what 
I  mean,  — would  strain  a  point  to  have  caught  you  within 
their  grasp.  There  were  letters,  too,  Mark,  written  by  you, 
and  of  such  a  character  as  would,  if  proved  against  you, 
have  cost  your  life;  these  Hemsworth,  by  some  means, 
obtained  and  destroyed." 

"Ah!  did  he  so?"  cried  Mark,  eagerly,  for  now  a  sud- 
den light  broke  in  upon  him  of  the  game  that  Hemsworth 
had  played ;    "and  so,  he  burned  my  letters?" 

"  You  know  now,  then,  something  of  the  services  he  ren- 
dered you,"  said  the  old  man,  who  began  at  last  to  be  satis- 
fied that  conviction  was  coming  home  to  Mark's  mind. 

''I  do,"  replied  he,  calmly;  "I  believe  that  I  can  appre- 
ciate his  kindness,  and  I  believe  also  I  may  promise  that 
I  shall  not  prove  ungrateful.  And  Kate,  sir,  what  said  she 
to  those  revelations  concerning  me?" 

"What  we  all  said,  Mark, — that  nothing  dishonorable 
would  ever  lie  at  your  door;  there  might  be  rashness,  im- 
prudence, and  folly,  but  guilt  or  dishonor,  never." 

"And  my  uncle,  —  he  is  generally  a  shrewd  and  cautious 
judge, — what  was  his  opinion?" 

"Faith,  it  is  hard  to  say,  Mark,  but  I  think,  with  all 


26  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

his  affected  freedom  from  prejudice,  he  nourishes  his  old 
notions  about  Hemsworth  as  strong  as  ever,  and  persists 
in  thinking  the  Travers  family  everything  amiable  and 
high-minded;  indeed,  he  forced  me  to  let  Herbert  accom 
pany  them  to  England,  for  I  let  him  take  the  boy  into  his 
own  hands;  and  so,  as  the  invitation  had  been  made  and 
accepted  before  Kate  had  refused  the  captain's  offer,  I 
thought  it  would  look  better  even  to  suffer  matters  to  take 
their  course  quietly,   as  if  nothing  had  happened." 

"It  was  well  done,"  said  Mark,  assentingly;  "and  now 
I  have  heard  enough  to  dream  over  for  one  night  at  least, 
and  so  I  '11  to  bed." 

"Remember,  Mark,"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  grasping  his 
son's  arm,  —  "remember,  I  am  solemnly  pledged  to  HemS' 
worth  never  to  tell  j^ou  anything  of  these  matters.  It  was 
a  promise  he  exacted  from  me;  I  rely  upon  you,  Mark,  not 
to  betray  me." 

"  My  discretion  is  above  price,  sir,"  said  Mark,  smiling 
dubiously,  and  left  the  room. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

SUSPICIONS    ON    EVERY    SIDE. 

Early  on  the  following  morning  Mark  O'Donoghue  was 
on  his  way  to  the  Lodge.  To  see  Hemsworth,  and  dare 
him  to  a  proof  of  his  assertions  regarding  him,  or  provoke 
him,  if  possible,  to  a  quarrel,  were  his  waking  thoughts 
throughout  the  night,  and  not  even  all  his  weariness  and 
exhaustion  could  induce  sleep.  He  did  not,  indeed,  know 
the  full  depth  of  the  treachery  practised  against  him;  but 
in  what  he  had  discovered  there  were  circumstances  that 
portended  a  well-planned  and  systematic  scheme  of  villany. 
The  more  Mark  reflected  on  these  things,  the  more  he  saw 
the  importance  of  proceeding  with  a  certain  caution. 
Hemsworth's  position  at  Carriguacurra,  the  advances  he 
had  made  in  his  father's  esteem,  the  place  he  seemed  to 
occupy  in  Kate's  good  graces,  were  such  that  any  alterca- 
tion which  should  not  succeed  in  unmasking  the  infamy  of 
his  conduct  would  only  be  regarded  as  a  burst  of  boyish 
intemperance  and  passion;  and  although  Mark  was  still 
but  too  much  under  the  influence  of  such  motives,  he  was 
yet  far  less  so  than  formerly;  besides,  to  fix  a  duel  on 
Hemsworth  might  be  taken  as  the  consequence  of  a  sense 
of  rivalry  on  his  part,  and  anger  that  his  cousin  had  pre- 
ferred him  to  himself.  This  thought  was  intolerable;  the 
great  effort  he  proposed  to  his  heart  was  to  eradicate  every 
sentiment  of  affection  for  his  cousin,  and  every  feeling  of 
interest.  To  be  able  to  regard  her  as  one  whose  destiny 
had  never  crossed  with  his  own,  —  to  do  this  was  now 
become  a  question  of  self-esteem  and  pride.  To  return  her 
indifference  as  haughtily  as  she  bestowed  it,  was  a  duty  he 
thought  he  owed  to  himself,  and  therefore  he  shrank  from 


28  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

anything  which  would  have  the  faintest  semblance  of 
avenging  his  own  defeat. 

Such  were  some  of  the  difficulties  of  his  present  position, 
and  he  thought  them  over  long  and  patiently,  weighing  well 
the  consequences  each  mode  of  acting  might  entail,  and 
deliberating  with  himself  as  to  what  course  he  should  fol- 
low. His  first  resolve,  then,  which  was  to  fasten  a  hostile 
meeting  upon  Hemsworth,  was  changed  for  w^hat  seemed  a 
better  line  of  procedure,  —  which  was  simply  to  see  that 
gentleman,  to  demand  an  explanation  of  the  statements  he 
had  made  concerning  him,  calling  upon  him  to  retract 
whenever  anything  unfounded  occurred,  and  requiring  him 
to  acknowledge  that  he  had  given  a  coloring  and  semblance 
to  his  conduct  at  total  variance  with  fact.  By  this  means 
Mark  calculated  on  the  low  position  to  which  Hemsworth 
would  be  reduced  in  Kate's  estimation,  the  subterfuges  and 
excuses  he  would  be  forced  to  adopt,  all  the  miserable 
expedients  to  gloss  over  his  falsehood,  and  all  the  con- 
temptible straits  to  conceal  his  true  motives.  To  exhibit 
him  in  this  light  before  Kate's  eyes,  she  whose  high  sense 
of  honor  never  brooked  the  slightest  act  that  savored  of 
mere  expediency,  would  be  a  far  more  ample  revenge  than 
any  which  should  follow  a  personal  rencontre. 

"She  shall  see  him  in  his  true  colors,"  muttered  he  to 
himself,  as  he  went  along;  "she  shall  know  something  of 
the  man  to  whom  she  would  pledge  honor  and  affection; 
and  then,  w^hen  his  treachery  is  open  as  the  noonday,  and 
the  blackness  of  his  heart  revealed,  she  shall  be  free  to 
take  him,  unscathed  and  uninjured.  I  '11  never  touch  a  hair 
of  his  head." 

Mark  had  a  certain  pride  in  thus  conducting  himself  on 
this  occasion;  to  show  that  he  possessed  other  qualities 
than  those  of  rash  and  impetuous  courage,  that  he  could 
reason  calmly  and  act  deliberately,  was  now  the  great 
object  he  had  at  heart.  Nor  was  the  least  motive  that 
prompted  him  the  desire  he  felt  to  exhibit  himself  to  Kate 
in  circumstances  more  favorable  than  any  mere  outbreak 
of  indignant  rage  would  display  him. 

The  more  he  meditated  on  these  things,  the  more  firm 
and  resolute  were  his  determinations  not  to  suffer  Hems- 


SUSPICIONS  ON  EVERY  SIDE.  29 

worth  to  escape  his  difficulties,  by  converting  the  demand 
for  explanation  into  an  immediate  cause  of  quarrel.  Such 
a  tactique  he  thought  it  most  probable  Hemsworth  would  at 
once  adopt  as  the  readiest  expedient  in  his  power. 

"No,"  said  Mark  to  himself,  "he  shall  find  that  he  has 
mistaken  me;  my  patience  and  endurance  will  stand  the 
proof.  He  must  and  shall  avow  his  own  baseness,  and 
then,   if  he  wish  for  fighting  —  " 

The  clinched  lip  and  flashing  eye  the  words  were  accom- 
panied by,  plainly  confessed  that  if  Mark  had  adopted  a 
more  pacific  line  of  conduct,  it  certainly  was  not  in 
obedience  to  any  temptations  of  his  will. 

Immersed  in  his  reveries,  he  found  himself  in  front  of 
the  Lodge  before  he  was  aware  of  it;  and,  although  his 
thoughts  were  of  a  nature  that  left  him  little  room  for 
other  considerations,  he  could  not  help  standing  in  surprise 
and  admiration  at  the  changes  effected  in  his  absence. 
The  neat  but  unpretending  cottage  had  now  been  converted 
into  a  building  of  Elizabethan  style;  the  front  extended 
along  the  lake  side,  to  which  it  descended  in  two  terraced 
gardens.  The  ample  windows,  thrown  open  to  the  ground, 
displayed  a  suite  of  apartments  furnished  with  all  that 
taste  and  luxury  could  suggest,  —  the  walls  ornamented  by 
pictures,  and  the  panels  of  both  doors  and  window-shutters 
formed  of  plate  glass,  reflecting  the  mountain  scenery  in 
every  variety  of  light  and  shadow.  The  rarest  flowers,  the 
most  costly  shrubs,  brought  from  long  distances  at  great 
risk  and  price,  w^ere  here  assembled  to  add  their  beauties 
to  a  scene  where  nature  had  already  been  so  lavish. 

While  Mark  was  yet  looking  about  in  quest  of  the 
entrance  to  the  building,  he  saw  a  man  approach,  with 
whose  features  he  was  well  acquainted.  This  was  no  other 
than  Sam  Wylie,  the  sub-agent,  the  same  he  had  treated 
so  roughly  when  last  they  met.  The  fellow  seemed  to 
know  that,  though  in  certain  respects  the  tables  were  now 
turned,  yet,  with  such  a  foe  as  Mark  O'Donoghue,  any 
exhibition  of  triumph  might  be  an  unsafe  game;  so  he 
touched  his  hat,  and  was  about  to  move  past  in  silence, 
when  Mark  cried  out,  — 

"I  want  to  speak  with  j^our  master,  — can  I  see  him?  " 


30  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"Master!"  said  W3'lie,  and  his  sallow  face  grew  sal- 
lower  and  sicklier.     ''If  ye  mean  Mr.  Hemsworth,  sir  —  " 

'"Of  course  I  do.  If  I  spoke  of  Sir  Marmaduke  Travers, 
I  should  mean  his  inaster.     Is  he  at  home?  " 

"No,  sir;  he  has  left  the  Lodge." 

''Left  it!  —  since  when?  I  saw  him  last  night  at  ten 
o'clock." 

"He  left  here  before  eleven,"  was  "Wj^lie's  answer. 

"When  is  he  expected  back?  " 

"Not  for  a  week,  at  soonest,  sir.  It  may  be  even  longer, 
if,  as  he  said,  it  were  necessary  for  him  to  go  to  England." 

"To  England!"  exclaimed  Mark,  in  bitter  disappoint- 
ment, for  in  the  distance  the  hope  of  speedy  vengeance 
seemed  all  but  annihilated.  "What  is  his  address  in 
Dublin?"  said  he,  recovering  himself. 

"To  the  office  of  the  Upper  Secretary,  sir,  I  am  to  address 
all  his  letters,"  said  Wylie,  for  the  first  time  venturing  on 
a  slight  approach  to  a  smile. 

"His  hotel,  I  mean.     Where  does  he  stop  in  the  city?" 

"  He  usually  stays  in  the  Lower  Castle  Yard,  sir,  when 
in  town,  and  probably  will  be  there  now,  as  the  Privy 
Council  is  sitting,  and  they  may  want  to  examine  him. " 

The  slow,  measured  tone  in  which  these  few  words  were 
uttered  gave  them  a  direct  application  to  Mark  himself, 
which  made  him  flush  deeply.  He  stood  for  a  few  seconds, 
seemingly  in  doubt,  and  then  turned  his  steps  towards 
home. 

"Did  you  hear  what  the  j'oung  O'Donoghue  said  there, 
as  he  passed  ?  "  said  Wylie  to  a  laboring  man,  who  stood 
gazing  after  the  youth. 

"I  did,  faix,"  replied  the  other;  "I  heerd  it  plain 
enough." 

"Tell  me  the  words,  Pat;  I  'd  like  to  hear  them." 

"  'T  is  what  he  said,  —  'He  's  escaped  me  this  time;  but, 
by  G — ,  he  '11  not  have  the  same  luck  always.'  " 

"It  was  Mr.  Hemsworth  he  was  after,"  said  Wylie.  "It 
was  him  he  meant." 

"  To  be  sure  it  was ;  did  n't  I  hear  him  asking  after 
him?  " 

"All    right,  — so    you    did,"    added    Wylie,    nodding. 


SUSPICIONS   ON  EVERY   SIDE.  31 

"Take  care   you  don't  forget  the  words,    that's   all,    and 
here  's  the  price  of  a  glass  to  keep  your  memory  fresh." 

And  he  chucked  a  sixpence  to  the  man,  who,  as  he  caught 
it,  gave  a  look  of  shrewd  intelligence  that  showed  he  felt 
there  was  a  compact  between  them. 

Mark  moved  homewards  in  deep  thought.  There  was  a 
time  when  disappointment  would  have  irritated  him  rather 
than  have  suggested  any  new  expedient  for  success.  Now 
he  was  changed  in  this  respect.  If  baffled,  he  did  not  feel 
defeated.  His  first  anger  over,  he  began  to  think  how 
best  he  should  obtain  a  meeting  with  Hemsworth,  and  a 
retractation  of  his  calumnies  against  himself.  To  venture 
back  to  Dublin  would  have  been  unsafe  on  every  account. 
The  informations  sworn  against  him  by  Lant}"  Lawler  might 
be  at  any  moment  used  for  his  capture.  In  Glenflesk  alone 
was  be  safe ;  so  long  as  he  remained  there,  no  force  Gov- 
ernment would  think  of  sending  against  him  could  avail ; 
nor  was  it  likely,  for  the  sake  of  so  humble  an  individual 
as  himself,  that  they  would  take  measures  which  would 
have  the  effect  of  disclosing  their  knowledge  of  the  plot, 
and  thus  warn  other  and  more  important  persons  of  the 
approaching  danger.  Mark's  first  determination  to  leave 
home  at  once  was  thus  altered  by  these  casual  circum- 
stances. He  must  await  Hemsworth's  return,  since,  with- 
out the  explanation  he  looked  for,  he  never  could  bring 
himself  to  take  leave  of  his  friends.  As  he  pondered  thus, 
a  servant  in  Hemsworth's  livery  rode  rapidly  past  him. 
Mark  looked  suddenly  up,  and  perceived,  with  some  sur- 
prise, from  the  train  of  dust  upon  the  road,  that  the  man 
was  coming  from  Carrignacurra.  Slight  as  the  incident 
was,  he  turned  his  thoughts  from  his  own  fortunes  to  fix 
them  on  those  of  his  cousin  Kate.  B}'  what  magic  this 
man  Hemsworth  had  won  favor  in  her  e^^es  he  could  not 
conceive.  That  he  should  have  overcome  all  the  prejudices 
of  his  father  was  strange  enough;  but  that  Kate,  whose 
opinions  of  people  seldom  or  ever  underwent  a  change,  and 
who  of  all  others  professed  to  dislike  that  very  plausibility 
of  manner  which  Hemsworth  possessed,  that  she  could  for- 
give and  forget  the  tyrannies  with  which  his  name  was 
associated,  —  she  whose  spirit  no  sordid  bait  could  tempt, 


32  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

nor  any  mean  object  of  personal  ambition  bias,  —  this  was, 
indeed,  inexplicable.  Twice  or  thrice  a  thought  flashed 
across  him,  if  it  should  not  be  true  —  if  it  was  merely  one 
of  those  rumors  which  the  world  builds  on  circumstances  — 
that  Hemsworth's  intimacy  was  the  sole  foundation  for  the 
report,  and  the  friendly  interchange  of  visits  the  only 
reason  for  the  story. 

" £  must  know  this,"  said  Mark;  "it  may  not  be  too  late 
to  save  her.  I  may  have  come  back  in  the  very  nick  of 
time,  and,  if  so,  I  shall  deem  this  piece  of  fortune  more 
than  enough  to  requite  all  the  mischances  of  my  life." 

As  he  spoke  thus  he  had  reached  the  little  flower-garden, 
which,  in  front  of  the  tower,  was  the  only  spot  of  cultiva- 
tion around  the  old  building.  His  eye  wandered  over  the 
evidences  of  care,  few  and  slight  as  they  were,  with  pleas- 
ant thoughts  of  her  who  suggested  the  culture,  when,  at  the 
turn  of  a  walk,  he  beheld  his  cousin  coming  slowly  towards 
him. 

"Good-morrow,  Mark,"  said  she,  extending  her  hand,  and 
with  a  smile  that  betokened  no  angry  memory  of  the  pre- 
ceding night;  "you  took  but  little  sleep  for  one  so  much 
fatigued  as  you  were." 

"And  you,  cousin,  if  I  mistake  not,  even  as  little.  I 
saw  a  light  burning  in  3^our  room  when  day  was  break- 
ing." 

"An  old  convent  habit,"  said  she,  smiling.  "Our  matins 
used  to  be  as  early." 

A  low,  soft  sigh  followed  this  speech. 

"Yes,"  said  Mark,  "you  have  reason  to  regret  it:  your 
life  was  happier  there;  you  had  the  pleasure  of  thinking 
that,  many  a  mile  away  in  this  remote  land,  there  were 
relatives  and  friends  to  whom  you  were  dear,  and  of  whom 
you  might  feel  proud.  Sad  experience  has  told  you  how 
unworthy  we  are  of  your  affection,  how  much  beneath  your 
esteem.  The  cold  realities  that  strip  life  of  its  ideal  hap- 
piness are  only  endurable  when  age  has  blunted  our  affec- 
tions and  chilled  our  hearts.  In  youth  their  poignancy  is 
agony  itself.  Yes,  Kate,  I  can  dare  to  say  it,  even  to 
you,  — would  that  you  had  never  come  amongst  us." 

"  I  will  not  misunderstand  you,  Mark ;  I  will  not  affect  to 


SUSPICIONS  ON  EVERY  SIDE.  33 

think  that  in  your  speech  there  is  any  want  of  affection  for 
me.  I  will  take  it  as  you  mean  it,  that  it  had  been  better 
for  me;  and,  even  on  your  own  showing,  I  tell  you,  nay. 
If  I  have  shed  some  tears  within  these  old  walls,  yet  have 
my  brightest  hours  been  passed  within  them.  Never,  until 
I  came  here,  did  I  know  what  it  was  to  minister  to  another's 
happiness;  never  did  I  feel  before  the  ecstasy  of  being  able 
to  make  joy  more  pleasurable,  and  sorrow  less  afflicting. 
The  daughter  feeling  has  filled  up  what  was  once  a  void  in 
my  poor  heart ;  and  when  you  pity  me  for  this  life  of  loneli- 
ness, my  pulse  has  throbbed  with  delight  to  think  how  a 
dut}^,  rendered  by  one  as  humble  and  insignificant  as  I  am, 
can  ennoble  life,  and  make  of  this  quiet  valley  a  scene  of 
active  enjoyment." 

"So  you  are  happy  here,  Kate,"  said  he,  taking  her  hand, 
*'and  would  not  wish  to  leave  it?  " 

"No,  Mark,  never.  There  would  be  no  end  to  my  ambi- 
tion were  the  great  world  open  to  me,  and  the  prizes  all 
glittering  before  me,  —  ambitions  which  would  take  the 
shape,  not  of  personal  aggrandizement,  but  high  hope  for 
objects  that  come  not  within  a  woman's  sphere.  Here, 
affection  sways  me;  there,  it  might  be  prejudice  or  passion.'* 

"Ambition!"  muttered  Mark,  catching  at  the  word, — 
"ambition!  The  penalty  you  pay  for  it  is  far  too  high; 
and,  were  the  gain  certain,  it  is  dearly  bought  by  a  heart 
dead  to  all  purer  emotions,  cold  to  every  affection  of 
family  and  kindred,  and  a  spirit  made  suspecting  by 
treachery.  No,  Kate,  no;  the  humblest  peasant  on  that 
mountain,  whose  toil  is  for  his  daily  bread,  whose  last  hope 
at  night  is  for  the  health  that  on  the  morrow  shall  sustain 
more  labor,  he  has  a  nobler  life  than  those  who  nourish  high 
desires  by  trading  on  the  crimes  and  faults  of  others.  I 
had  ambition  once;  God  knows,  it  grew  not  in  me  from' 
any  unworthy  hope  of  personal  advantage.  I  thought  of 
myself  then  as  meanly  as  I  now  do;  but  I  dreamt  that,  by 
means  humble  and  unworthy  as  mine,  great  events  have 
been  sometimes  set  in  motion.  The  spark  that  ignites  the 
train  is  insignificant  enough  in  itself,  though  the  explosion 
may  rend  the  solid  masonry  that  has  endured  for  ages. 
Well,  well,  the  dream   is  over  now;  let  us  speak  of  some^ 

VOL.  II.  —  .3 


34  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

thing  else.  Tell  me  of  Herbert,  Kate.  What  success  has 
he  met  with  in  the  University?" 

"He  failed  the  first  time,  but  the  second  trial  made  ample 
amends  for  that  defeat.  He  carried  away  both  prizes  from 
his  competitors,  Mark,  and  stands  now,  confessedly^,  the 
most  distinguished  youth  of  his  day;  disappointment  only 
nerved  his  courage.  There  was  a  failure  to  avenge,  as  well 
as  a  goal  to  win,  and  he  has  accomplished  both." 

''  Happy  fellow,  that  his  career  in  life  could  depend  on 
efforts  of  his  own  making;  who  needed  but  to  trust  his  own 
firm  resolve,  and  his  own  steady  pursuit  of  success,  and 
cared  not  how  others  might  plot,  and  plan,  and  intrigue 
around  him." 

"Very  true,  Mark;  the  prizes  of  intellectual  ambition 
have  this  advantage,  that  they  are  self- won.  But,  bethink 
you,  are  not  other  objects  equally  nol^le ;  are  not  the  efforts 
we  make  for  others  more  worthy  of  fame  than  those  which 
are  dictated  by  purely  personal  desire  of  distinction?  " 

Mark  almost  started  at  the  words,  whose  direct  applica- 
tion to  himself  could  not  be  doubted,  and  his  cheek  flushed, 
partly  with  pride,  partly  with  shame. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  after  a  brief  pause,  "these  are  noble 
themes,  and  can  stir  a  heart  as  sorrow-struck  as  mine ;  but 
the  paths  that  lead  upwards,  Kate,  are  dark  and  crooked, 
the  guides  that  traverse  them  are  false  and  treacherous." 

"You  have,  indeed,  found  them  so,"  said  Kate,  with  a 
deep  sigh. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  I  have  found  them  so?  "  cried  Mark, 
in  amazement  at  the  words. 

"I  mean  what  I  have  said,  Mark;  that  betrayal  and 
treachery  have  tracked  you  for  many  a  day.  You  would 
not  trust  me  with  your  secret,  Mark,  nor  yet  confide  in  me, 
when  an  accident  left  it  in  my  possession.  Chance  has 
revealed  to  me  many  circumstances  of  your  fortune,  and 
even  now,  Mark,  I  am  only  fearful  lest  your  own  prejudices 
should  hazard  your  safety.  Shall  I  go  on?  May  I  speak 
still  more  plainly?" 

Mark  nodded,  and  she  resumed :  — 

"One  who  never  favored  the  cause  you  adopted,  probably 
from  the  very  confederates   it  necessitated,  yet  saw  with 


SUSPICIONS  ON  EVERY   SIDE.  35 

sympathy  how  much  truth  and  honor  were  involved  in  the 
struggle,  has  long  watched  over  you,  stretching  out,  unseen, 
the  hand  to  help,  and  the  shield  to  protect  you.  He  saw  in 
you  the  generous  boldness  of  one  whose  courage  supplies 
the  nerve,  that  mere  plotters  trade  upon  but  never  possess. 
He  saw  that,  once  in  the  current,  you  would  be  swept  along, 
while  they  would  watch  you  from  the  shore.  He,  I  say, 
saw  this,  and  with  a  generosity  the  greater  because  no  feel- 
ings of  friendship  swayed  him,  he  came  forward  to  save 
you." 

"And  this  unseen  benefactor,"  said  Mark,  with  a  proud 
look  of  scornful  meaning,   "his  name  is  — " 

"I  will  not  speak  it,  if  you  ask  me  thus,"  said  Kate, 
blushing,  for  she  read  in  his  glance  the  imputation  his 
heart  was  full  of.  "Could  you  so  far  divest  yourself  of 
prejudice  as  to  hear  calmly,  and  speak  dispassionately,  I 
could  tell  you  anything,  —  everything,  Mark." 

"No,  Kate,  no,  "said  he,  smiling  dubiously;  "I  have  nc 
right  to  ask  —  perhaps  not  to  accept  of  such  a  confidence." 

"Be  it  so,  then,"  said  she,  proudly,  "we  will  speak  of 
this  no  more ;"  and,  with  a  slight  bow,  and  a  motion  of  her 
hand,  she  turned  into  another  alley  of  the  garden,  and  left 
Mark  silently  musing  over  the  scene.  Scarcely,  however, 
had  she  screened  herself  from  his  view  by  the  intervening 
trees,  than  she  hastened  her  steps,  and  soon  gained  the 
house.  Without  stopping  to  take  breath,  she  ascended  the 
stairs  and  tapped  at  Sir  Archy's  door. 

"Come  in,  my  sweet  Kate,"  said  he,  in  his  blandest 
voice;  "I  should  know  that  gentle  tap  amid  a  thousand. 
But,  my  dear  child,  why  so  pale?  what  has  agitated  you? 
Sit  down  and  tell  me." 

"Read  this,  sir,"  said  she,  taking  a  letter  from  the  folds 
of  her  handkerchief;  "this  will  tell  you  all,  shorter  and 
more  collectedly  than  I  can.  I  want  your  advice  and  coun- 
sel, and  quickly  too,  for  no  time  is  to  be  lost." 

"This  is  Mr.  Hemsworth's  writing,"  said  Sir  Archy,  as 
he  adjusted  his  spectacles  to  read.  "  When  did  you  receive 
it?" 

"About  an  hour  ago,"  answered  Kate,  half  impatient  at 
the  unhurried  coolness  of  the  old  man's  manner,  who  at  last 


36  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

proceeded  to  examine  the  epistle,  but  without  the  slightest 
show  of  anxiety  or  eagerness.  His  apath}^  was,  however, 
short-lived;  short  expressions  of  surprise  broke  from  him, 
followed  by  exclamations  of  terror  and  dismay,  till,  at 
length,   laying  down  the  letter,    he  said,  — 

"  Leave  me,  sweet  Kate,  —  leave  me  to  read  and  reflect 
on  this  alone.  Be  assured  I  '11  lose  no  time  in  making  up 
my  mind  about  it,  for  I  see  that  hours  are  precious  here." 
And  as  she  glided  from  the  room  Sir  Archy  placed  the  open 
letter  on  a  table  before  him,  and  sat  down  diligently  to 
reconsider  its  contents. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 


HEMSWORTH    S     LETTER. 


The  letter  over  which  Sir  Archy  bent  in  deep  thought  was 
from  Hemsworth.  It  was  dated  the  night  before,  and 
addressed  to  Kate  O'Donoghue,  and,  although  professing 
to  have  been  hurriedly  written,  an  observer  as  acute  as  Sir 
Archy  could  detect  ample  evidence  of  great  care  and  con- 
sideration in  its  composition.  Statements  seemingly  clear 
and  open,  were  in  reality  confused  and  vague;  assertions 
were  qualified,  and,  in  lieu  of  direct  and  positive  informa- 
tion, there  were  scattered  throughout  hopes  and  fears, 
wishes  and  expectations,  all  capable  of  being  sustained, 
whatever  the  issue  of  the  affair  they  referred   to. 

The  letter  opened  with  a  respectful  apology  for  address- 
ing Miss  O'Donoghue,  but  pleading  that  the  urgency  of  the 
case,  and  the  motives  of  the  writer,  might  be  received  as  a 
sufficient  excuse.  After  stating,  in  sufficiently  vague  terms 
to  make  the  explanation  capable  of  a  double  meaning,  the 
reasons  for  selecting  her,  and  not  either  of  her  uncles,  for 
the  correspondence,  it  entered  at  once  upon  the  matter  of 
the  communication  in  these  words :  — 

''I  have  hesitated  and  doubted.  Miss  O'Donoghue,  how 
far  my  interference  in  the  affairs  of  3^our  family  may  be 
misconstrued,  and  whether  the  prejudices  which  were  once 
entertained  to  my  disadvantage  might  not  now  be  evoked 
to  give  a  false  coloring  to  my  actions.  These  doubts  I 
have  resolved,  by  reflecting  that  they  are  for  the  most  part 
personal,  and  that  if  I  succeed  in  rendering  real  service, 
the  question  is  comparatively  indifferent  what  light  or 
shadow  it  may  seem  to  throw  on  my  conduct.  A  candid 
and  impartial  judgment  I  certainly  look  to  from  you^  and  I 
confess  myself  at  liberty  to  lay  less  store  by  the  opinions 
of  others." 


38  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Continuing  for  a  brief  space  in  this  strain,  the  letter 
went  on  to  mention  that  the  sudden  return  of  Mark  had  left 
the  writer  no  alternative  but  to  venture  on  this  correspond- 
ence, whatever  the  consequences,  —  consequences  which, 
the  writer  palpably  inferred,  might  prove  of  the  last 
moment  to  himself.  The  explanation  —  and  for  the 
reader's  sake  it  is  better  to  spare  him  Hemsworth's  in- 
volved narrative,  and  merely  give  its  substance  —  was 
chiefly  that  information  of  Mark  O'Donoghue's  complicity 
in  the  plot  of  the  United  Irish  party  had  been  tendered  to 
Government,  and  supported  by  such  evidence  that  a  judge's 
warrant  was  issued  for  his  apprehension  and  the  seizure  of 
all  his  papers ;  partly  from  friendl}'  interference,  —  this  was 
dubiously  and  delicately  put  by  Hemsworth,  —  and  partly 
from  the  fact  that  his  extreme  youth  and  ignorance  of  the 
real  views  of  the  insurgents  were  pleaded  in  his  favor,  the 
execution  of  this  warrant  was  delayed,  and  the  young  man 
suffered  to  go  at  large.  So  long  as  he  withdrew  himself 
from  the  company  of  the  other  conspirators,  and  avoided 
publicity,  the  Government  was  willing  to  wink  at  the  past. 
It  had  been,  however,  determined  on,  that,  should  he  either 
be  found  mixed  up  with  any  of  the  leaders  of  the  movement 
in  future,  or  should  he  venture  to  return  to  Glenflesk,  where 
his  influence  amongst  the  peasantry  was  well  known  to, 
and  apprehended  by,  the  Government,  then  there  should  no 
longer  be  any  hesitation  in  the  line  to  be  followed.  He 
was  immediately  to  be  apprehended,  and  sent  up  under  a 
sufficient  escort  to  Dublin,  to  take  his  trial,  with  five 
others,  for  high  treason.  The  proofs  of  his  guilt  were  un- 
questionable, consisting  of  letters  written  and  received, 
conversations  to  which  witnesses  could  depose,  as  well  as 
an  intimacy,  for  months  long,  with  Barringtou,  whose 
active  participation  in  the  schemes  of  rebellion  was  as  well 
known  as  the  notorious  fact  of  his  being  a  convicted  felon. 
To  found  a  hope  upon  his  innocence  was  thus  shown  to  be 
perfectly  impossible.  His  most  trusted  associates  were  the 
evidence  against  him;  documents  in  his  handwriting  were 
also  in  the  hands  of  the  law  officers  of  the  Crown,  and,  in 
fact,  far  more  than  enough  to  bring  him  to  the  scaffold. 

Hemsworth,   who  gently  hinted  all   through  how  far  his 


HEMSWORTH'S   LETTER.  39 

interference  had  been  beneficial,  was  one  of  those  intrusted 
with  Mark's  arrest,  should  he  ever  dare  to  reappear  in  his 
native  country.  The  orders  of  the  Privy  Council  on  this 
score  were  positive  and  clear,  and  admitted  of  no  possible 
misconception. 

'"You  may  judge,  then,"  continued  he,  "what  were  my 
feelings  on  seeing  him  suddenly  enter  the  house  last  night, — 
to  think  that,  while  I  was  enjoying  the  pleasure  of  your 
society  and  the  hospitable  attentions  of  your  home,  I  had 
actually  in  my  pocket,  at  the  moment,  the  official  order  to 
apprehend  the  eldest  son  of  my  entertainer,  the  friend  and 
companion  of  3'our  childhood;  to  bring  grief  and  mourning 
beneath  the  roof  where  I  had  passed  so  many  happy  hours ; 
to  dispel  all  the  dreams  I  had  begun  to  nourish  of  a  neigh- 
borhood connected  by  ties  of  kindness  and  goodwill.  I 
had  to  choose  between  the  alternative  of  this,  or  else,  by  a 
palpable  avoidance  of  my  duty,  criminate  mj^self,  and  leave 
my  conduct  open  to  the  most  dangerous  comments  of  my 
enemies.  The  latter  involved  only  myself.  I  have  adopted 
it,  and  before  this  letter  reaches  your  hands,  I  shall  be  on 
my  way  up  to  Dublin,  nominally  to  attend  the  Council,  but 
in  reality  to  escape  the  necessity  my  onerous  position  would 
impose.  None  save  those  beneath  your  roof  know  that  I 
have  met  Mr.  Mark  O'Donoghue,  and  I  shall  be  half  way 
to  Dublin  before  his  arrival  in  the  country  is  suspected. 
So  much,  in  brief,  for  the  past  and  the  present.  Now  for 
the  future.  There  are  two  courses  open  to  this  young  gen- 
tleman, or  to  those  who  would  serve  and  befriend  him. 
One  is,  by  a  free  and  unlimited  confession  to  the  Govern- 
ment of  all  the  circumstances  of  the  plot,  so  far  as  they 
have  come  to  his  knowledge,  the  parties  interested,  their 
several  shares  in  the  undertaking,  with  every  detail  of  date 
and  time,  to  sue  for  a  pardon  for  himself,  —  a  grace  which, 
I  need  scarcel}^  say,  I  will  use  all  my  influence  to  obtain. 
The  other  mode  is,  by  a  temporary  exile,  to  withdraw  him- 
self from  the  notice  of  the  Government,  until,  the  danger 
having  perfectly  passed  over,  political  acrimony  will  have 
abated,  and  the  necessity  for  making  severe  examples  of 
guilt  be  no  longer  urgent.  This  latter  course  I  opine  to  be 
preferable,  on  many  grounds.     It  demands  no  sacrifice  of 


40  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

private  feeling,  no  surrender  of  honor.  It  merely  provides 
for  safety,  reserving  the  future  untrammelled  by  any  pledge. 
Neither  need  the  absence  be  long,  —  a  year  or  two  at  farthest. 
The  probabilities  are,  that  with  their  present  knowledge  of 
the  schemes  of  the  insurgents,  the  Government  can  either 
precipitate  events,  or  retard  and  protract  them  at  will; 
their  policy,  in  this  respect,  depending  on  the  rank  and 
importance  of  those  who,  by  either  line  of  procedure,  would 
be  delivered  into  their  hands.  Arguing  from  what  they 
have  already  done,  I  should  pronounce  it  likely  that  their 
game  will  be  to  wait,  to  weaken  the  hopes  and  break  the 
spirit  of  the  United  Party,  by  frequent  defections  to  sow 
distrust  and  suspicion  amongst  them,  and  thus,  while 
avoiding  the  necessity  of  bloodshed,  to  wear  out  rebellion 
by  a  long  and  lingering  fear.  If,  then,  others,  whose  age 
and  position  involved  a  greater  prominence  in  these 
schemes,  would  require  a  longer  banishment  to  erase  the 
memory  of  the  acts,  your  young  relative,  who  has  both 
youth  and  its  rashness  to  plead  for  him,  need  not  reckon  on 
so  lengthened  an  absence  from  his  native  land. 

'•Above  all  things,  however,  remember  that  not  an  hour 
is  to  be  lost.  Any  moment  may  disclose  to  the  Crown 
some  new  feature  of  the  plot,  and  may  call  forth  measures 
of  stringent  severity.  The  proclamation  offering  a  reward 
for  the  apprehension  of  four  persons,  of  whom  your  cousin 
is  one,  is  already  printed,  and  in  the  office  of  the  Secretary. 
An  hour  would  see  it  all  over  the  walls  of  the  capital,  in  a 
day  or  two  more  it  would  reach  every  remote  corner  of  the 
land.  Then  all  efforts  on  my  part  would  be  ineffectual, 
were  they  even  possible.  Reflect  on  this.  It  is  not  a  mere 
question  of  fine  or  even  imprisonment.  It  is  life  itself  is 
on  the  issue,  and  life  which,  in  surrendering,  will  blast  a 
■great  name  with  dishonor,  and  a  great  house  with  obloquy 
and  shame;  for  there  has  been  no  struggle,  no  efifort,  no 
bold  and  generous  exposure  to  danger,  to  palliate  treason 
and  gloss  over  its  faults.  All  has  been  plotting  and  con- 
triving for  alien  assistance  and  foreign  help;  no  self- 
reliance,  no  patriotism,  which,  if  mistaken,  was  still 
sincere  and  manly.  Reflect  on  all  this,  and  think  a  life 
offered  up  in  such  a  cause  has  no  martyrdom  to  throw  lustre 


HEMSWORTH'S   LETTER.  41 

on  the  grave  shared  with  the  felon  and  the  highwayman. 
Forgive  me  if,  in  the  warmth  of  my  zeal,  I  have  said  one 
word  which  may  offend.  If  I  had  not  spoken  thus  forcibly, 
I  should  be  a  traitor  to  my  own  heart. 

"  I  have  written  hurriedly,  and  I  doubt  not,  in  some 
respects,  unadvisedly;  but  the  sincerity  of  my  purpose  will 
plead  for  me,  should  the  indiscretion  of  my  zeal  require 
apology.  You  will,  perhaps,  ask  why  I  should  have  im- 
posed a  task  difficult  as  this  upon  you ;  why  I  should  have 
loaded  you  with  a  responsibility  so  weighty?  My  answer 
is  simply,  I  dared  not  write  to  the  O'Donoghue  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  son's  indiscretion;  to  impugn  the  acts  of  the 
young  man  would  be  to  forfeit  all  influence  with  the  old 
one.  You  will  then  say,  why  not  address  Sir  Archibald  ? 
For  the  simple  reason,  that  the  prejudices  of  his  country 
are  too  strong  in  him  to  make  due  allowances  for  those  who 
err  from  excitable  or  impetuous  natures;  not  only  would  he 
judge  too  harshly  of  Mark,  but  he  would  be  anxious  to 
record  that  judgment  as  a  warning  to  Herbert,  for  whom 
alone  he  is  interested.  1  therefore  make  it  a  strenuous 
request,  —  nay,  more,  I  esteem  it  as  the  term  of  a  compact 
between  us,  —  that  you  do  not  show  this  letter  either  to  the 
O'Donoghue  or  to  his  brother,  I  have  expressed  myself 
openly  and  candidly  to  you,  but  with  a  tacit  assurance  that 
my  confidence  is  not  to  be  extended  to  others.  In  the  part 
I  have  taken  I  already  incur  considerable  risk.  This  is  a 
period  when  loyalty  cannot  afford  to  be  even  suspected ;  yet 
have  I  jeoparded  mine  in  defending  this  youth.  I  now 
conclude,  dear  madam,  assuring  you  that  any  danger  I 
incur,  or  any  anxiety  I  feel,  will  be  amply  repaid  if  I  only 
know  that  you  think  not  unworthily  of 

"William  Hemsworth." 

Sir  Archy  studied  this  letter  with  the  patient  care  a 
lawyer  bestows  upon  a  brief.  He  thought  over  each  sen- 
tence, and  weighed  the  expressions  in  his  mind  with  deep 
thought.  It  had  been  his  fortune,  in  early  life,  to  have 
been  thrown  into  situations  of  no  common  difficulty,  and 
his  mind  had,  in  consequence,  acquired  a  habit  of  shrewd 


42  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

and  piercing  investigation,  which,  though  long  disused, 
was  not  altogether  forgotten;  by  the  aid  of  this  faculty, 
Hemsworth's  letter  appeared  to  him  in  a  very  different  light 
from  that  in  which  Kate  viewed  it.  The  knowledge  of 
every  circumstance  concerning  Mark  evinced  an  anxiety 
which  he  was  very  far  from  attributing  to  motives  of 
friendship.  Sir  Archy  well  knew  the  feelings  of  dislike 
which  subsisted  between  these  two  men :  how  then  account 
for  this  sudden  change  on  Hemsworth's  part?  to  what  attri- 
bute this  wonderful  interest  concerning  him? 

"Let  us  see,"  said  the  old  man  to  himself,  —  "let  us  see 
the  fruit,  and  then  we  may  pronounce  upon  the  tree.  Where 
and  to  what  does  Hemsworth's  benevolence  point?  Dis- 
honor or  banishment!  Such  are  the  terms  he  offers;  such 
are  the  alternatives  his  kindness  suggests.  Might  these 
have  no  other  motive  than  friendship?  Might  they  not  be 
the  offspring  of  feelings  very  different  indeed?  What 
benefit  might  he  derive  from  Mark's  expatriation?  —  that 
is  the  question.  Does  he  anticipate  easier  terms  with  the 
old  man  for  the  little  remnant  of  property  that  still  per- 
tains to  him  —  or  is  it  merely  the  leaven  of  the  old  hate 
that  still  rises  in  his  nature  ?  —  or  "  —  and  here  his  eye 
flashed  with  brilliancy  as  a  new  thought  crossed  his  brain 
—  *'or  does  he  suspect  Mark  of  occupying  a  place  in  his 
cousin's  affection,  and  is  rivalry  the  source  of  this  mysteri- 
ous good  nature?" 

This  suspicion  no  sooner  occurred  to  him  than  Sir  Archy 
recalled  to  mind  all  the  circumstances  of  Hemsworth's 
recent  behavior;  the  endeavors  he  had  made  to  recommend 
himself  to  their  favorable  notice;  all  his  acts  to  ingratiate 
himself  with  Kate;  the  ample  views  he  affected  in  politics; 
the  widespread  generosity  of  his  plans  for  the  amelioration 
of  the  people.  That  his  conduct  was  unreal,  that  his  prin- 
ciples were  but  assumed  for  the  occasion,  the  shrewd 
Scotchman  had  long  suspected;  and  this  letter,  so  far  from 
dispelling  the  doubts,  increased  them  tenfold.  Besides 
this,  there  seemed  some  reason  to  fear  that  Kate  was  not 
quite  indifferent  to  him.  The  disparity  of  3'ears  was  so 
far  in  his  favor,  as  she  could  not  but  feel  flattered  by  the 
notice  of  one  so  conversant  with  the  world  and   its  v.'ays. 


HEMSWORTH'S  LETTER.  43 

who  had  travelled  and  seen  so  much,  and  might  in  every 
respect  be  deemed  a  competent  judge  in  matters  of  taste. 
A.ny  comparison  of  him  with  Mark  must  redound  with  great 
advantage  to  the  former.  The  accomplished  scholar,  the 
agreeable  and  well-bred  man  of  society,  was  a  severe  com- 
petitor for  the  half-educated  and  slovenly  youth,  whose 
awkward  and  bashful  manner  seemed  rather  ill-temper  than 
mere  diffidence.  Mark  was  himself  conscious  of  the  disad- 
vantages he  labored  under,  and  although  Sir  Archy  had  few 
fears  that  such  an  admirer  was  likely  to  win  favor  with  the 
gay  and  capricious  girl  whose  foreign  habits  had  taught  her 
to  value  social  qualities  at  the  highest  price,  still  there  was 
a  chance  that  Hemsworth  might  have  thought  differently, 
and  that  jealousy  was  the  secret  of  the  whole  scheme.  Kate, 
with  her  ten  thousand  pounds  of  a  rent-charge,  might  be  a 
very  reasonable  object  of  Hemsworth's  ambition;  and  when 
already  he  had  absorbed  so  large  a  portion  of  the  family 
estates,  this  additional  lien  would  nearly  make  him  master 
of  the  entire.  It  was,  then,  perfectly  possible  that  this  was 
his  game,  and  that  in  withdrawing  Mark  from  the  scene,  he 
both  calculated  on  the  gratitude  his  generosity  w^ould  evoke, 
and  more  securely  provided  for  his  own  success. 

While  Sir  Archy  thus  pondered  over  Hemsworth' s 
motives,  he  did  not  neglect  the  more  pressing  consideration 
of  Mark's  danger.  It  was  evident  that  he  had  taken  an 
active  part  in  the  insurrectionary  movement,  and  without 
the  slightest  precautious  for  his  personal  safety.  The  first 
care,  therefore,  was  to  see  and  learn  from  him  the  full 
extent  of  his  danger,  what  proofs  there  existed  against  him, 
and  what  evidence,  either  in  writing  or  otherwise,  might  be 
adduced  to  his  disadvantage. 

*'Tell  me,  frankly  and  freely,  Mark,"  said  he,  aloud,  as 
he  arose  and  paced  the  room, — "tell  me  openly  how  you 
stand,  who  are  your  betrayers,  what  your  dangers,  and  I  '11 
answer  for  it  the  peril  may  be  averted." 

'•I  have  come  to  do  so,  sir,"  said  a  voice  behind  him, 
and  Mark  O'Donoghue  was  standing  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 


TAMPERING    AND    PLOTTING. 


While  they  who  meditated  the  invasion  of  Ireland  were 
thoroughly  informed  on  the  state  of  parties  and  the  condi- 
tion of  public  opinion  in  that  kindgom,  the  English  Gov- 
ernment were  satisfied  with  vague  and  insufficient  rumors 
of  those  intentions,  derived  from  sources  of  questionable 
accuracy,  or  communicated  by  persons  in  the  pay  of  their 
opponents.  Certain  it  is,  neither  the  magnitude  of  the 
peril  was  appreciated,  nor  its  nearness  suspected.  Many 
in  England  regarded  the  whole  in  the  light  of  a  menace, 
and  believed  that  the  embarrassments  of  the  French 
Directory  were  quite  sufficient  to  withdraw  their  thoughts 
from  foreign  aggression  to  troubles  nearer  home.  Their 
great  want  of  money,  arms,  and  all  the  munitions  of  war 
was  well  known,  and  trusted  to  as  a  guarantee  of  security. 
Others  supposed  that  a  rash  attempt  might  be  made,  but 
were  equally  sure  of  its  being  defeated  by  our  naval  forces 
before  a  landing  could  be  effected ;  and  many  more  believed 
that  the  pretence  of  foreign  aid  was  but  a  threat  of  the  mal- 
contents at  home  to  enforce  compliance  with  their  demands. 
The  event  itself  was  to  show  how  unfounded  were  all  these 
calculations,  and  how  little  reason  we  had  to  regard  our 
security  as  derived  from  our  own  measures  of  foresight  and 
precaution. 

Constituted  as  the  French  Government  of  the  day  was, 
nothing  would  have  been  easier  than  to  have  ample  knowl- 
edge of  all  the  projects.  The  men  in  high  situations  were 
newly  elevated  to  power  from  positions  of  very  humble  pre- 
tension, with  no  habits  of  public  business,  no  experience  of 
the  mode  of  conducting  difficult  affairs,  and  many  of  them 
of  very  questionable  character  for  integrity;  and  yet,  with 
these  opportunities  at  our  disposal,  a  few  scattered  facts, 


TAMPERING  AND  PLOTTING.  45' 

ill-authenticated  and  vague,  were  all  that  our  Government 
attained  to;  and  even  these  were  unattended  to,  save  when 
they  implicated  the  conduct  of  some  suspected  character 
nearer  home;  then,  indeed,  party  violence  assumed  an 
appearance  of  statesmanlike  vigilance,  and  Crown  prosecu- 
tions and  ex-officio  informations  seemed  the  safeguard  of 
the  empire. 

On  occasions  of  this  kind  the  activity  of  the  Government 
was  most  remarkable,  and  while  the  great  question  of 
national  security  was  overlooked,  no  pains  were  spared  to 
track  out  the  narrow  path  where  some  insignificant  treason 
was  plotting,  and  bring  the  plotter  to  the  scaffold.  Large 
sums  of  money  were  spent  in  obtaining  secret  information, 
and  the  whole  science  of  government  was  reduced  to  a 
system  of  espionage.  This  little-minded  and  narrow  policy 
was,  in  a  great  measure,  the  consequence  of  intrusting  so 
much  of  the  government  to  the  influence  of  the  lawyers, 
who,  regarding  everything  through  the  light  of  their  own 
profession,  placed  the  safety  of  the  empire  on  the  success 
of  a  Crown  prosecution. 

It  was  at  a  moment  when  this  favorite  policy  was  in  the 
ascendant  that  Hemsworth  reached  Dublin,  little  aware, 
indeed,  how  far  events  there  were  hastening  forward  the 
catastrophe  for  which  he  was  interested.  Lanty  Lawler, 
who  for  a  long  time  had  never  communicated,  save  to 
Hemsworth,  his  knowledge  of  the  United  Irish  movement, 
had  at  length  become  alarmed  for  his  own  safety ;  and  put- 
ting but  slight  trust  in  Hemsworth's  good  faith,  should  any 
calamity  befall  him,  had  come  forward  and  revealed  to 
Major  Sirr  all  that  he  knew  of  the  plot,  the  names  of  several 
parties  implicated,  and,  in  particular,  the  whole  history  of 
Mark  O'Donoghue's  complicity.  The  information  came 
well-timed.  The  Crown  lawyers  were  desirous  of  exhibit- 
ing the  parade  of  a  state  prosecution,  and  all  the  ordinary 
measures  were  taken  to  secure  its  success.  Lanty,  now  a 
prisoner  in  Newgate,  but  with  the  promise  of  a  free  pardou 
and  a  reward,  had  been  repeatedly  examined  by  the  Attor- 
ney and  Solicitor-General,  and  his  statement  found  per- 
fectly accurate  and  consistent.  He  narrated  the  various 
interviews  he  had  been  present  at  among  the  Delegates  in 


46  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Dublin;  the  messages  he  had  conveyed  from  them  to  differ- 
ent individuals  tlirough  the  country;  the  depots  where  pikes 
and  muskets  were  stored,  and  the  several  places  of  rendez- 
vous agreed  upon  whenever  the  rising  should  take  place. 
He  also  revealed  many  facts  of  the  feeling  prevalent  among 
the  people,  and  exemplified  the  conflicting  state  of  opinion 
then  in  the  country:  how  that  many  were  worn  out  and  dis- 
couraged by  delay,  and  believed  themselves  betrayed  by 
France;  while  others  were  full  of  hope  and  confidence, 
eager  for  the  time  to  come,  and  ready  to  inctir  any  peril. 
While  in  all  these  disclosures  he  was  most  candid  and 
explicit,  he  never  once  betrayed  the  name  of  Mary  M'Kelly, 
nor  even  alluded  in  any  way  to  her  cabin  as  a  resort  of 
the  French  spies  and  the  secret  depot  of  arms  and  ammuni- 
tion. It  might  have  been  that,  in  the  blackness  of  his 
treachery  to  others,  this  one  spark  of  better  feeling  survived 
towards  her,  —  that  some  lurking  affection  lingered  in  a 
heart  dead  to  every  other  noble  sentiment,  or  perhaps  the 
lesser  motive  swayed  him,  that  in  excepting  her  from  the 
general  ruin,  he  was  securing  to  himself  one  who,  as  a  wife, 
would  bring  him  no  small  share  of  worldly  wealth.  Either 
may  be  the  explanation  of  his  conduct;  for,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  the  vilest  actions  are  sometimes  conceived  with 
a  reserve  of  conscience  that  shows  what  casuistry  guilt 
requires,  and  how  much  the  spirit  of  evil  lacks  of  courage, 
when  it  has  to  borrow  the  energy  to  act  from  even  the 
semblance  of  something  good. 

It  was  not  without  reluctance  at  first  that  Lanty  ventured 
on  the  betrayal  of  Mark  O'Donoghue,  nor  did  he  even  con- 
sent to  do  so  until  his  own  safety  had  been  threatened  by 
Hemsworth,  and  also  a  solemn  promise  given  that  he  should 
never  be  brought  forward  to  give  evidence  against  him,  nor 
exhibited  before  the  world  as  an  informer.  This  was  the 
character  he  most  dreaded:  it  was  the  only  reproach  that 
had  any  terror  for  his  mind.  Gradually,  however,  and  by 
the  frequency  of  his  revelations  to  Hemsworth,  this  dread 
diminished,  and  in  proportion  the  fears  for  his  own  safety 
increased.  Hemsworth' s  game  was  to  make  him  believe 
that  such  depended  solely  on  him,  —  that  at  any  moment  he 
could  give  information  of  a  character  sufficient  to  convict 


TAMPERING  AND   PLOTTING.  47 

him;  and  by  this  tie  was  he  bound  to  a  man  he  detested 
with  all  his  hatred.  After  much  vacillation  and  doubt  it 
was  that  Lanty  determined,  whatever  the  consequences  to 
his  fame,  to  make  a  full  disclosure  to  Government,  and 
only  bargain  for  his  own  life.  Hemsworth's  absence  from 
Dublin  afforded  the  opportunity,  and  he  seized  it  at  once. 
Such,  then,  was  the  position  of  affairs  when  Hemsworth 
reached  the  capital,  and  learned  that  his  agent,  Lanty,  was 
no  longer  at  his  disposition,  but  at  that  very  moment  a 
prisoner  in  the  jail  of  Newgate,  strict  orders  being  given 
that  nobody  was  to  be  admitted  to  converse  with  him  with- 
out the  special  leave  of  the  law  officers  of  the  Crown. 
Now,  although  Hemsworth  had  personally  little  to  fear  from 
any  disclosure  Lanty  might  make,  yet  his  information 
might  thwart  all  the  plans  he  had  so  artfully  devised  regard- 
ing the  O'Donoghues,  the  events  impending  that  family 
being  up  to  that  moment  perfectly  at  his  own  discretion 
and  disposal,  to  delay  or  precipitate  which  constituted  the 
essence  of  his  policy.  Mark  could  not  be  brought  to  trial, 
he  well  knew,  without  exhibiting  himself  in  the  light  of 
an  enemy  and  an  accuser,  he  being  the  person  to  whom 
Lanty  originally  communicated  his  informations.  This 
hostile  part  would  form  an  impassable  obstacle  to  any  suc- 
cess with  Kate,  and  consequently  to  his  great  plan  of 
obtaining  the  Glenflesk  estate. 

Hemsworth  lost  not  a  moment,  after  his  arrival  in  town, 
in  his  endeavors  to  have  an  interview  with  Lanty;  and, 
being  on  terms  of  old  intimacy  with  the  sheriff,  at  length 
persuaded  him  to  grant  him  a  brief  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  him,  —  a  permission,  under  the  circumstances,  most 
reluctantly  acceded.  It  was  near  nine  o'clock  —  the  latest 
hour  at  which  the  visit  to  the  jail  was  practicable  —  when 
Hemsworth  presented  himself  with  the  sheriff's  order  at  the 
gate.  A  brief  delay  ensued ;  for  even  on  such  an  authority 
the  jailer  scrupled  to  deviate  from  the  directions  given  him, 
and  he  was  admitted.  Following  the  turnkey  for  some 
minutes,  through  passages  and  across  courts,  they  reached 
an  angle  of  the  building  dedicated  to  the  reception  of  those 
who  were  held  over  by  the  Crown  as  "  approvers  "  against 
their  former  friends  and  associates.     Many  of  these  had 


48  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

been  in  confinement  several  mouths,  the  time  not  having 
arrived  when  the  evidence  which  they  were  to  corroborate 
was  perfected,  and  not  a  few  preferring  the  security  of  a 
prison  to  the  dangers  the  character  of  an  informer  would 
expose  them  to  without  doors.  A  confused  noise  of  voices 
and  coarse  laughter  was  heard  as  they  came  near,  and  the 
turnkey,  striking  his  bunch  of  keys  against  a  heavy  door, 
called,  "Be  silent  there,  b — t  ye;  there  's  more  trouble  with 
six  of  ye  than  we  have  with  the  whole  condemned  ward." 
Then,  turning  to  Hemsworth,  he  added,  in  a  lower  voice, 
*'Them  chaps  is  awaitin'  a  passage  over  seas.  They  've 
given  their  evidence  long  ago,  and  they  're  not  wanted  now. 
That  one  with  the  cracked  voice  is  Cope,  the  fellow  that 
tracked  Parson  Jackson;  but  here,  this  is  your  man's  cell: 
we  cannot  give  you  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  so 
don't  lose  any  more  time." 

Hemsworth  laid  his  hand  on  the  jailer's  arm  as  he 
extended  it  with  the  key.  "One  second,  — just  wait  one 
second,"  said  he,  as  he  pressed  his  finger  across  his  brow, 
and  seemed  to  reflect;  then  added,  "Yes,  that  will  do, — 
open  it  now,  and  I  shall  be  ready  to  retire  whenever  you 
please." 

Whether  the  sound  without  had  drowned  the  noise,  or 
that  his  attention  was  too  much  engaged  to  notice  it,  Lanty 
never  stirred  nor  looked  round  as  the  heavy  door  was  un- 
barred and  fastened  again  behind  Hemsworth.  Seated  in 
a  recess  of  the  window,  and  with  his  face  pressed  against 
the  iron  bars,  he  was  watching  with  interest  the  movement 
in  the  street  below,  where  a  considerable  number  of  people 
w^ent  past,  their  eyes  directed  upwards  to  the  front  of  the 
building,  but  all  view  of  which  was  impossible  to  him. 
Hemsworth  stood  and  looked  at  him  for  some  minutes  with- 
out speaking,  —  he  was  as  if  calculating  the  very  thoughts 
of  the  other's  brain;  then,  advancing  gently,  he  laid  his 
hand  on  Lawler's  shoulder,   as  he  said,  — 

"Ay,  Lanty,  that's  the  reward  they  get.  Two  of  them 
are  to  be  turned  off  to-morrow." 

"Two  of  whom,  sir?"  asked  Lanty,  as,  starting  at  the 
voice,  his  face  became  the  color  of  death. 

"I  thought  you  knew!"  said  he,  affecting  astonishment; 


TAMPERING  AND  PLOTTING.  49 

*'they  are  the  approvers  against  Bond.  The  Government 
has  no  use  for  the  rascals  now,  and  it  saves  expense  to 
hang  them,  and  so  they  tried  them  for  a  murder  at  Sallius 
in  March  last.  I  hear  they  were  not  there ;  but,  no  matter, 
they  've  enough  to  answer  for  without  that." 

''But,  sure,  Mr.  Hemsworth,  they  '11  never  treat  their  own 
friends  that  way?" 

"Wouldn't  they,  Lanty!  You  don't  know  them  as  well 
as  I  do.  They  keep  little  faith  with  scoundrels,  and  more 
fools  the  scoundrels  for  being  caught.  But  I  mustn't  lose 
time;  it  was  that  very  thing  brought  me  here.  I  heard  this 
evening  the  scrape  you  were  in." 

"Me  in  a  scrape!"  exclaimed  Lanty,  his  eyes  growing 
wider  with  terror. 

"To  be  sure  it  is;  and  a  devilish  ugly  scrape,  too,  my 
friend.  Have  n't  you  given  information  to  the  Attorney- 
General  against  the  young  O'Donoghue?" 

Lanty  nodded,  and  he  went  on. 

"Have  n't  you  confessed  the  whole  of  the  plot,  and  told 
them  everything?" 

"Very  nearly,  faix!"  said  Lanty,  dropping  his  head  and 
sighing. 

"And  what  do  you  expect  to  gain  by  that.  Master  Lanty? 
Is  it  by  showing  that  you  are  of  no  use  to  them,  that  you  've 
nothing  more  left  in  you,  that  you  hope  for  a  reward?  Is 
it  for  the  sake  of  your  family  and  friends,  or  on  account  of 
your  remarkable  honesty,  they  're  so  fond  of  you?  "  Then, 
checking  this  sneering  tone,  he  added,  in  a  slow  and  solemn 
voice,  "Are  you  a  fool,  man?  —  or  don't  you  see  what  you 
are  bringing  yourself  to?  What  will  be  your  claim  when 
the  trial  of  the  young  O'Donoghue  is  over?  The  Crown 
lawyers  will  have  you  up  in  the  witness-box  till  they  've 
drained  you  dry.  Devil  a  drop  they'll  leave  in  you;  and 
when  they  say,  'Go  down,'  take  my  word  for  it,  it 's  down 
you  '11  go  in  earnest,  and  all  the  world  would  n't  lift  you  up 
afterwards. " 

Hemsworth  permitted  the  words  to  sink  into  his  heart  for 
a  few  seconds  in  silence,   and  then  went  on,  — 

"  So  long  as  you  trusted  me^  you  were  safe.  I  'd  never 
expose  you  in  open  court." 


50 


THE   O'DONOGHUE. 


*'No,  sir,  nor  the  Attorney-General  neither.  He  said 
that  all  they  wanted  was  my  information  on  oath." 

"And  you  gave  it!  "  exclaimed  Hemsworth,  in  a  voice  of 
ill-dissembled  anxiety. 

"Not  all  out,  sir,"  said  Lanty,  with  a  shrewd  glance  of 
malicious  intelligence.  "  I  asked  them  for  a  copy,  to  read 
it  over  before  I  signed  it,  and  they  gave  me  one,"  —  here  he 


produced  a  roll  of  paper  from  his  breast-pocket  and  showed 
it  to  Hemsworth,  — "and  I'm  to  give  it  back  to-morrow, 
with  my  name  to  it." 

"They've  played  you  off  well,  Lanty,"  said  Hemsworth, 
while,  carelessly  opening  the  paper,  he  affected  not  to  pay 
it  any  attention.  "The  lawyers  have  got  round  you  nicely; 
and,  faith,  I  always  thought  you  a  clever  fellow  before. 
Your  evidence,  so  long  as  it  was  your  own,  was  worth  five 
thousand  pounds,  and  I  would  n't  give  five  for  your  chance 
of  escape,  now  that  they  know  your  secret." 

''What  would   you  say  if  they  didn't  know   it?"  said 


TAMPERING   AND  PLOTTING.  51 

Lanty,  with  a  look  of  impudent  familiarity  he  had  never 
ventured  on  before.  "What  would  you  say,  now,  if  the 
best  of  my  evidence  was  to  come  out  yet?  —  that  I  never 
told  one  word  about  the  French  clipper  that  landed  the 
muskets  in  Glengariff  Bay,  and  left  two  pipes  of  wine  at 
your  own  house  the  same  night  ?  " 

"Ah!  you'd  try  that  game,  would  you?"  said  Hems- 
worth,  with  a  smile  of  deadly  malice;  "but  I  've  thought  of 
that  part,  my  honest  Lanty.  I  've  already  given  informa- 
tion on  that  very  matter.  You  don't  suppose  that  I  afforded 
those  fellows  my  protection  for  the  sake  of  the  bribe.  No, 
faith ;  but  I  made  them  pay  for  the  very  evidence  that  can 
any  day  convict  them,  —  ay,  them  and  7jou  ;  you,  a  paid 
spy  of  France,  a  sworn  United  Irishman,  who  have  admin- 
istered the  oaths  to  eighteen  soldiers  of  the  Roscommon 
militia,  and  are  at  this  moment  under  a  signed  and  wit- 
nessed contract,  bound  to  furnish  horses  for  a  French  cavalry 
force  on  their  lauding  here  in  Ireland.  Are  these  truths, 
Mr.  Lanty,  or  are  they  mere  matters  of  fancy?" 

"I'm  a  Crown  witness,"  said  Lawler,  sturdily,  "and  if  I 
speak  out  all  I  know,  they  're  bound  to  protect  me." 

"Who  is  to  bind  them?"  said  Hemsworth,  jeeringly;  "is 
it  your  friends  the  United  Irishmen  that  you  betrayed,  — 
is  it  they  are  to  watch  over  your  precious  life?  or  do  you 
think  your  claims  are  stronger  with  the  other  party,  that 
you  only  swore  to  massacre?  Where's  the  sympathy  and 
protection  to  come  from?  Tell  me  that,  for  I  'm  curious  on 
the  point." 

Lanty  turned  a  fierce  look  upon  him ;  his  eyeballs  glared, 
and  his  nether  lip  shook  convulsively,  while  his  hands  were 
firmly  clinched  together.  Hemsworth  watched  these  evi- 
dences of  growing  anger,  but  without  seeming  to  regard 
them,  when  the  key  grated  roughly  in  the  lock,  the  door 
opened,  and  the  jailer  called  out,  with  a  savage  attempt  at 
laughter,  — 

*'  Time  's  up.     I  must  turn  you  off,  sir." 

*'  A  short  reprieve,"  said  Hemsworth,  humoring  the  ruffian 
jest,  and  he  pitched  his  purse  into  the  fellow's  hand. 

"  To  settle  family  matters,  I  suppose,"  said  the  turnkey, 
with  a  grin,  as  he  retired,  and  closed  the  door  once  more. 


52  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

The  interruption  seemed  to  offer  a  favorable  opportunity 
to  Hemsworth  of  giving  an  amicable  turn  to  the  interview, 
for,  with  a  changed  voice,  and  a  look  of  well-assumed  friend- 
ship, he  said,  — 

"I  have  misspent  my  moments  here  sadly,  Lanty.  I 
came  to  befriend  you,  and  not  to  interchange  words  of  angry 
meaning.  If  I  had  been  in  Dublin,  I  'm  certain  you  would 
never  have  fallen  into  this  perilous  position.  Let  us  see  how 
best  to  escape  from  it.  This  information  —  I  see  it  is  all 
confined  to  young  O'Donoghue's  business  —  is  of  no  value 
whatever  until  signed  by  you.  It  is  just  as  if  it  were  never 
spoken.  So  that,  if  you  steadily  determine  not  to  sign  it, 
you  need  give  no  reason  whatever,  but  simply  refuse  when 
asked.     Do  this,  and  all 's  safe." 

' '  Could  n't  they  transport  me  ?  "  said  Lanty,  in  a  feeble 
voice,  but  whose  very  accent  betrayed  the  implicit  trust  he 
reposed  in  Hemsworth's  answer. 

"  They'll  threaten  that,  and  worse  too;  but  never  flinch: 
they've  nothing  against  you,  save  your  own  evidence. 
When  the  time  comes  —  mark  me,  I  say,  when  the  time 
comes  —  your  evidence  is  worth  five  thousand  pounds  ;  but 
now,  all  it  will  do  is  to  convict  young  O'Donoghue,  and  warn 
all  the  others  not  to  go  forward.  I  don't  suppose  you  want 
that;  the  young  fellow  never  did  you  any  harm." 

''  Never,"  said  Lanty,  dropping  his  head  with  shame,  for 
even  in  such  a  presence  his  conscience  smote  him. 

*' Very  well  —  there's  no  use  in  bringing  him  to  trouble. 
Keep  your  own  counsel,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"I'm  just  thinking  of  a  plan  I've  a  notion  in  my  head 
will  do  well,"  said  Lanty,  musingly.  "I'm  to  see  Father 
Kearney,  the  priest  of  Luke's  Chapel,  to-morrow  morning,  — 
he  's  coming  over  to  confess  me.  Well,  when  the  Attorney- 
General  and  the  others  come  for  me  to  write  my  name,  I  '11 
just  say  that  I  dar'  n't  do  it.  I  '11  not  tell  why  nor  where- 
fore —  sorra  word  more,  but  this,  '  I  dar'  n't  do  it.'  They'll 
think  at  once  it 's  the  priest  set  me  against  it.  I  know  well 
what  they  '11  say,  —  that  Father  Kearney  put  me  under  a 
vow^ ;  and  so  they  may.  They  '11  scarcely  get  him  to  say 
much  about  it,  and  I  '11  take  care  they  won't  make  me." 

"  That  thought  was  worthy  of  you,  Lanty,"  said  Hems- 


TAMPERING   AND   PLOTTING.  53 

worth,  laughing,  "  but  take  care  that  you  don't  swerve  from 
your  deter rniuat ion.  Remember  that  there  is  no  accusation 
against  you,  —  not  a  word  nor  a  syllable  of  testimony.  Of 
course,  they  '11  threaten  you  with  tlie  worst  consequences. 
You  '11  be  told  of  prosecutions  for  perjury,  and  all  that. 
Never  mind,  —  wait  patiently  your  time.  When  the  hour 
arrives,  I'll  make  your  bargain  for  you,  and  it  will  not  be 
merely  the  evidence  against  an  individual,  but  the  disclosure 
of  a  great  plot  of  rebellion,  they  must  pay  you  for.  Cock- 
ayne got  four  thousand  pounds  and  a  free  pardon.  Your 
services  will  rank  far  higher." 

"If  they  won't  bring  me  up  in  open  court,"  said  Lanty, 
timidly,   "I'll  do  whatever  they  please." 

"For  that  very  reason  you  must  adhere  to  my  advice. 
There,  now,  I  perceive  the  fellow  is  about  to  lock  up  for  the 
night,  and  I  must  leave  this.  You  may  want  some  money 
from  time  to  time.  I  '11  take  means  of,  sending  whatever 
you  stand  in  need  of.  For  the  present  ten  pounds  will,  I 
suppose,  be  sufficient." 

Lanty  took  the  money  with  a  mixture  of  humility  and 
sullenness.  He  felt  it  as  a  bribe  rather  than  a  gift,  and  he 
measured  the  services  expected  of  him  by  the  consideration 
they  were  costing.  The  turnkey's  presence  did  not  admit  of 
further  colloquy,  and  they  parted  in  mutual  suspicion  and 
distrust,  each  speculating  how  far  self-interest  might  be 
worked  upon  as  the  guiding  principle  to  sway  the  other's 
actions. 

"  I'm  scarcely  sure  of  him  yet,"  said  Hemsworth,  as  he 
slowly  returned  to  his  hotel.  "They'll  stop  at  nothing  to 
terrify  him  into  signing  the  informations,  and  if  the  prosecu- 
tion goes  on,  and  the  young  O'Donoghue  is  convicted,  the 
plot  is  blown  up.  The  others  will  escape,  and  all  my  long- 
projected  disclosures  to  the  Government  become  useless. 
Besides,  I  fail  where  failure  is  of  more  consequence.  It 
was  to  little  moment  that  I  prevented  a  marriage  between 
Travers  and  the  girl  if  I  cannot  make  her  my  own ;  but  yet 
that  alliance  should  have  been  thwarted  on  every  ground  of 
policy.  It  would  have  been  to  plant  the  Traverses  here  on 
the  very  spot  I  destine  for  myself.  No,  no.  I  must  take 
care  that  they  never  see  Ireland  more.     Indeed,  this  breaking 


54  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

off  the  marriage  will  prove  a  strong  obstacle  to  their  return- 
ing." Thus  did  he  review  his  plans,  sometimes  congratulat- 
ing himself  on  the  success  of  the  past,  sometimes  fearing 
for  the  future,  but  always  relying  with  confidence  on  the 
skill  of  his  own  negotiations,  —  an  ingenuity  that  never  yet 
had  failed  him  in  his  difficulties. 

The  next  day  was  the  time  appointed  for  Lanty's  final 
examination,  and  on  which  he  was  to  affix  his  name  to  the 
informations,  and  Hemsworth  loitered  in  one  of  the  offices 
of  the  Castle,  where  the  gossip  of  the  morning  was  dis- 
cussed, in  no  common  anxiety  to  hear  how  his  i/rotege  had 
acquitted  himself.  As  the  clerks  and  underlings  conversed 
among  themselves  on  the  dress  or  equipage  of  the  officials 
who  at  intervals  drove  off  towards  the  Park,  Hemsworth, 
who  affected  to  be  engaged  in  reading  a  morning  paper, 
overheard  one  remark  to  another,  — 

"There's  the  devil  to  pay  at  the  Council.  That  fellow 
they  have  in  Newgate,  against  Coyle  and  M'Nevin,  and  the 
rest  of  them,  it  seems,  now  refuses  to  confirm  his  informa- 
tions. They  have  good  reason  to  believe  all  he  said  was 
true,  but  they  can't  go  on  without  him." 

"  What 's  the  meaning  of  that?  He  was  willing  enough 
yesterday." 

"  They  say  a  priest  from  Luke's  Chapel  was  with  him 
this  morning,  and  forbid  him,  under  any  number  of  curses 
and  anathemas  in  case  of  disobedience,  to  reveal  a  syllable 
against  the  '  United  Party.' " 

"  They  can  compel  him,  however.  Don't  you  remember 
Cockayne  did  the  same  thing  about  Jackson's  business, 
and  they  brought  him  over  to  Lord  Clonmel's  house,  and 
made  him  sign  there  ?  " 

"  That  they  did,  but  they  '11  not  try  the  same  game  twice. 
Curran  brought  it  out  in  the  cross-examination,  and  made  it 
appear  that  the  witness  was  terrified  by  the  Crown  b}^  a  threat 
of  consequences  to  himself  as  an  accomplice,  and  the  point 
went  very  far  with  the  jury  in  Jackson's  favor." 

Hemsworth  did  not  wait  to  hear  more.  The  great  fact 
that  Lanty  was  firm,  was  all  that  he  cared  for,  and,  after 
a  few  casual  remarks  on  the  morning  news,  he  strolled  forth 
with  all  the  lazy  indifference  of  an  idle  man. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 


THE    BROTHERS. 


Among  the  unexplained  phenomena  of  the  period  is  one 
very  remarkable  and,  doubtless,  pregnant  circumstance,  — 
the  species  of  lull  or  calm  in  the  movements  of  the  United 
Irish  party,  which  was  conspicuous  throughout  the  entire 
of  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1796.  The  spring  opened 
on  them  with  hopes  high  and  expectations  confident.  Tone's 
letters  from  Paris  breathed  encouragement ;  the  embarrass- 
ments of  England  promised  favorably  for  their  cause ;  and 
many  who  wavered  before  were  found  now  willing  to  em- 
brace the  enterprise.  To  this  state  of  ardent  feeling  suc- 
ceeded an  interval  of  doubt  and  uneasiness ;  conflicting 
statements  were  circulated,  and  men's  minds  were  shaken, 
without  any  apparent  cause.  A  vague  fear  of  betrayal  and 
treachery  gained  ground,  yet  no  one  was  able  to  trace  this 
dread  to  any  definite  source.  The  result,  however,  was 
evident  in  the  greater  caution  of  all  concerned  in  the  scheme, 
—  a  reserve  which  seemed  to  threaten  a  total  abandonment 
of  the  undertaking ;  such,  at  least,  it  appeared  to  those 
who,  like  Mark  O'Donoghue,  having  few  or  no  opportunities 
of  intercourse  with  the  leaders,  were  disposed  to  take  their 
impressions  from  the  surface  of  events.  As  for  him,  his 
correspondence  had  ceased  with  Lanty's  treachery.  He 
neither  knew  the  real  names  nor  addressfes  of  those  to  whom 
he  had  formerly  written,  and  had  not  a  single  acquaintance 
to  whom  he  could  look  for  advice  and  assistance. 

All  Sir  Archy's  endeavors  to  win  his  confidence  had 
failed,  not  from  any  distrust  either  in  his  judgment  or 
his  good  faith,  but  because  Mark  regarded  his  secret  as 
a  sacred  depository,  in  which  the  honor  of  others  was 
concerned ;    and  however  disposed  to  seek  advice  for  him- 


56  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

self,  he  would  not  compromise  their  safety  for  the  sake  of 
his  own  advantage.  Unable  to  extort  a  confidence  by 
entreaty,  and  well  aware  how  little  efficiency  there  lay  in 
menace,  Sir  Archy  abandoned  the  attempt,  and  satisfied 
himself  by  placing  in  Mark's  hands  Hemsworth's  letter, 
significantly  hinting  his  own  doubts  of  the  writer's  integrity. 

Mark  sat  himself  down  in  the  garden  to  study  the  epistle, 
and  however  artfully  conceived,  the  experience  his  own 
career  opened  displayed  the  dishonesty  of  the  writer  at  every 
sentence. 

"I  am  the  obstacle  to  his  plans,  —  my  presence  here  is 
somehow  a  thwarting  influence  against  him,"  said  he,  as 
he  folded  up  the  paper.  "  I  must  remain  at  every  hazard; 
nor  is  there  much,  so  long  as  I  bound  my  wanderings  by 
these  great  mountains :  he  will  be  a  bolder  than  Hemsworth 
who  captures  me  here." 

Guided  by  this  one  determination,  and  trusting  that  time 
might  clear  up  some  of  the  mysteries  that  surrounded  him, 
Mark  waited  as  men  wait  for  an  event  that  shall  call  upon 
their  faculties  or  their  courage  for  some  unusual  effort. 
The  same  reverses  of  fortune  that  had  taught  him  distrust 
had  also  inculcated  the  lesson  of  patience ;  but  it  was  the 
patience  of  the  Indian  warrior,  who  will  lie  crouching  in 
concealment  for  days  long,  till  the  moment  of  his  vengeance 
has  arrived.  And  thus,  while  to  others  he  seemed  an 
altered  character,  less  swayed  by  rash  impulses,  and  less 
carried  away  by  anger,  the  curbed  up  passions  became  only 
more  concentrated  by  repression.  He  mixed  little  with  the 
others,  rarely  appearing  save  at  meal  times,  and  then  seldom 
taking  any  part  in  the  conversation  around.  He  did  not 
absent  himself  from  home,  as  before,  for  whole  days  or 
weeks  long,  but  spent  his  time  mostly  in  his  own  chamber, 
where  he  read  and  wrote  for  hours,  —  strange  and  unusual 
habits  for  one  who  had  never  sought  or  found  amusement 
save  in  the  fatigues  of  the  hunting-field.  His  manner,  too, 
was  no  longer  the  same.  Calmer  and  more  self-possessed 
than  before,  he  neither  seemed  to  feel  momentary  bursts  of 
high  spirits  nor  depression.  The  tone  of  his  mnid  was 
indeed  sad,  but  it  was  the  sadness  that  indicated  strength 
and  constancy  to  endure,  fully  as  much  as  it  betrayed  the 


I 


THE   BROTHERS.  57 

pain  of  suffering.  The  altered  features  of  his  character  im- 
pressed themselves  on  everything  he  did ;  and  there  was  an 
air  of  quiet  gentleness  in  his  demeanor  quite  foreign  to  his 
former  rough  and  abi'upt  manner.  Upon  none  did  these 
things  make  so  great  an  impression  as  on  Kate :  her  woman's 
tact  enabled  her  to  see  them  differently  and  more  correctly 
than  the  rest.  She  saw  that  a  mighty  change  had  come 
over  him ;  that  no  mere  check  of  disappointment,  no  baffled 
ambition  could  have  done  this ;  neither  could  she  attribute 
it  to  any  feeling  towards  herself,  for  he  was  never  more 
coolly  distant  than  now.  She  guessed,  then,  rightly,  that  it 
was  the  first  step  towards  freedom  of  a  mind  enthralled  by 
its  own  strong  passions.  It  was  the  struggling  energy  to  be 
free  of  a  bold  and  daring  spirit,  that  learned  at  length  to 
feel  the  lowering  influences  of  ill-directed  ambition.  How 
ardently  she  wished  that  some  career  were  open  to  him  now, 
—  some  great  path  in  life :  she  did  not  fear  its  dangers  or  its 
trials,  —  his  nature  suggested  anything  save  fear !  How  sad 
to  think  that  energy  like  his  should  be  suffered  to  wane,  and 
flicker,  and  die  out  for  want  of  the  occasion  to  display  its 
blaze.  She  could  not  avoid  communicating  these  thoughts 
to  Sir  Archy,  who  for  some  time  past  had  watched  the 
growing  change  in  the  youth's  manner.  The  old  man  lis- 
tened attentively  as  she  spoke,  and  his  glistening  eye  and 
heightened  color  showed  how  her  girlish  entluisiasm  moved 
him ;  and  while  some  reminiscence  of  the  past  seemed  to 
float  before  him,  his  voice  trembled,  as  he  said,  — 

"Alas!  my  sweet  child,  the  world  offers  few  opportu- 
nities like  those  you  speak  of,  and  our  political  condition 
rejects  them  totally.  The  country  that  would  be  safe  must 
give  little  encouragement  to  the  darings  of  youthful  energy. 
His  rewards  are  higher  here  who  seeks  out  some  path  well 
trod  and  beaten,  and  tries  by  industry  and  superior  skill  to 
pass  by  those  who  follow  it  also.  The  talents  men  prize  are 
those  available  for  some  purposes  of  every-day  life.  Gifts 
that  make  mankind  wiser  and  happier,  these  bring  fame  and 
honor ;  while  the  meteor  brilliancy  of  mere  heroism  can 
attract  but  passing  wonder  and  astonishment." 

''You  mistake  Mark,  my  dear  uncle, — you  undervalue 
the    change   that    is    worked    in    his  character.     He  is  not 


58  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

deficient  in  ability,  if  he  but  suffer  himself  to  rely  upon  it, 
rather  than  on  the  casual  accidents  of  fortune.  If  Herbert 
were  but  here  —  " 

"  Herbert  comes  home  to-night.  I  had  thought  to  keep 
my  secret  for  a  surprise,  but  j^ou  have  wrested  it  from  me." 

"Herbert  coming  home  !  Oh,  how  happy  you  have  made 
me  I  The  brothers  once  more  together,  how  much  each  may 
benefit  the  other!  Nay,  uncle,  you  must  not  smile  thus. 
Superior  as  Herbert  is  in  the  advantages  that  training  and 
study  impart.  Mark  has  gifts  of  determination  and  resolve 
as  certain  to  win  success.  But  here  he  comes :  may  1  not 
tell  him  of  Herbert's  coming?" 

Sir  Archy  smiled  and  nodded,  and  the  happy  girl  was  the 
next  moment  at  Mark's  side,  relating  with  delight  her 
pleasant  news. 

Mark  listened  with  pleasure  to  the  intelligence.  Any 
little  jealousy  he  once  felt  for  acquirements  and  attain- 
ments above  his  own  had  long  since  given  way  to  a  better 
and  more  brotherly  feeling ;  and  he  ardently  desired  to  meet 
and  converse  with  him  again. 

"  And  yet,  Kate,  how  altered  may  he  be  from  what  we 
knew  him.  Who  is  to  say  the  changes  time  may  not  have 
wrought  in  him  ?  " 

"Such  are  not  always  for  the  worse,  Mark,"  said  Kate, 
timidly,  for  she  felt  how  the  allusion  might  be  taken. 

A  slight  tinge  of  red  colored  Mark's  cheek,  and  his  eye 
was  lighted  with  a  look  of  pleasure.  He  felt  the  flattery  in 
all  its  force,  but  did  not  dare  to  trust  himself  with  a  reply. 

"I  wonder,"  said  he,  after  a  lengthened  pause, — "I 
wonder  how  Herbert  may  feel  on  seeing  once  more  our  wild 
glen.  Will  these  giant  rocks  and  bold  ravines  appeal  to  his 
heart  with  the  same  sympathies  as  ever,  or  will  the  habits  of 
the  life  he  has  left  cling  to  him  still,  and  make  him  think 
this  grandeur  only  desolation  ?  " 

"You  did  not  feel  so,  surely,  Mark?"  said  Kate,  as  she 
turned  upon  him  a  look  of  affectionate  interest. 

"Me?  —  I  think  so?  No!  This  valley  was  to  me  a 
place  of  rest,  — a  long-sought-for  haven.  I  came  not  here 
from  the  gay  and  brilliant  world,  rich  in  fascinations  and 
pleasures.     I  had  not  lived  among  the  great  and  learned, 


THE   BROTHERS.  59 

to  hear  the  humble  estimate  they  have  of  our  poor  land. 
I  came  back  here  like  the  mariner  whose  bark  puts  back 
shattered  by  the  storm  and  baffled  by  the  winds,  unable  to 
stem  the  tide  that  leads  to  fortune.  Yes,  shipwrecked  in 
everything." 

*'  Herbert,  Herbert!  "  cried  Kate. 

At  the  same  moment  a  chaise,  advancing  at  full  gallop, 
turned  from  the  road  into  the  avenue  towards  the  house. 
The  boy  caught  sight  of  the  figures  in  the  garden,  flung 
open  the  door,  and,  springing  out,  rushed  towards  them. 

''My  dear,  dear  Kate !  "  was  his  first  exclamation,  as  he 
kissed  her  affectionately ;  his  next,  in  a  tone  of  unqualified 
surprise,  was,  ''  What  a  fine  fellow  you  have  grown, 
Mark !  "  And  the  two  brothers  were  locked  in  each  other's 
arms. 

The  sentiment  which  thus  burst  from  him  in  the  first 
moment  of  surprise  was  the  very  counterpart  of  Mark's 
own  feeling  on  beholding  Herbert.  Time  had  worked 
favorably  for  both.  On  the  elder  brother,  the  stamp  of 
manhood  more  firmly  impressed,  had  given  an  elevation  to 
the  expression  of  his  features,  and  a  character  of  com- 
posure to  his  air;  while  with  Herbert,  his  career  of  study 
alternating  with  a  life  passed  among  cultivated  and  polished 
circles,  had  converted  the  unformed  stripling  into  a  youth 
of  graceful  and  elegant  demeanor.  The  change  was  even 
greater  in  him  than  in  his  brother.  In  the  one  case  it  was, 
as  it  were,  but  the  growth  and  development  of  original  traits 
of  character ;  in  the  other,  new  and  very  different  features 
were  distinguishable.  His  thoughts,  his  expressions,  his 
ver3"  accent  were  changed ;  yet  through  this  his  old  nature 
beamed  forth,  bright,  jo3^ous,  and  affectionate  as  ever.  It 
was  the  same  spirit,  although  its  flights  were  bolder  and 
more  daring, —  the  same  mind,  but  its  workings  more  power- 
ful and  more  free.  The  one  had  placed  his  ambition  so 
high  he  scarcely  dared  to  hope ;  the  other  had  already  tasted 
some  of  the  enjoyments  of  success,  —  life  had  even  already 
shed  around  him  some  of  its  fascinations,  and  quickened  the 
ardor  of  his  temper.  A  winner  in  the  race  of  intellect,  he 
experienced  that  thrilling  ecstasy  which  acknowledged  su- 
periority confers ;  he  knew  what  it  was  to  feel  the  mastery 


60  THE   O'DONOGBX^E. 

over  others,  and,  even  now,  the  flame  of  ambition  was 
lighted  in  his  heart,  and  its  warm  glow  tingled  in  his  veins 
and  throbbed  in  every  pulse.  In  vain  should  they  who 
knew  him  once  seek  for  the  timid,  bashful  boy  that  scarcely 
dared  to  make  an  effort  from  very  dread  of  failure.  His 
flashing  eye  and  haughty  brow  told  of  victory ;  still  around 
his  handsome  mouth  the  laughing  smile  of  happy  youth 
showed  that  no  ungenerous  feeling,  no  unworthy  pride,  had 
yet  mingled  with  his  nature. 

"They  tell  me  you  have  swept  the  University  of  its 
prizes,  Herbert, — is  not  this  so?"  said  Mark,  as  he  leaned 
his  arm  affectionately  on  his  shoulder. 

"You  would  think  but  poorly  of  my  triumphs,  Mark," 
replied  Herbert,  with  a  smile.  "The  lists  I  fight  in  peril 
not  life  or  limb." 

"  Still,  there  is  honor  in  the  game,"  said  Mark.  "Wher- 
ever there  is  success  on  one  side,  and  failure  on  the  other,  — 
wherever  there  is  hope  to  win  and  dread  to  lose,  —  there, 
the  ambition  is  never  unworthy." 

"But  what  of  you,  Mark?  Tell  me  of  yourself?  Have 
you  left  a  buck  in  the  glen,  or  is  there  a  stray  grouse  on 
the  mountain?     AYhat  have  you  been  doing  since  we  met?  " 

Mark  colored  and  looked  confused,  when  Kate,  coming 
to  the  rescue,  replied,  — 

"How  can  you  ask  such  a  question,  Herbert?  What 
variety  does  life  afford  in  this  quiet  valley?  Is  it  not  the 
very  test  of  our  happiness  that  we  can  take  no  note  of  time  ? 
But  here  comes  my  uncle." 

Herbert  turned  at  the  words,  and  rushed  to  meet  the  old 
man. 

"  Have  you  won  baith,  Herbert,"  cried  he,  —  "  baith  pre- 
miums? Then  I  must  gie  you  twa  hands,  my  dear  boy," 
said  he,  pressing  him  in  a  fond  embrace.  "  Were  the  com- 
petitors able  ones?  Was  the  victor}^  a  hard  one?  Tell  me 
all,  everything  about  it." 

And  the  j^outh,  with  bent-down  head  and  rapid  utterance, 
related  in  a  low  voice  the  event  of  his  examination. 

"Go  on,  go  on,"  said  Sir  Archy  M'Nab,  aloud;  "tell 
me   what  followed." 

And  Herbert  resumed   in   the   same  tone  as  before. 


THE   BROTHERS.  61 

"  Ha !  "  cried  Sir  Archy,  in  an  accent  of  irrepressible 
delight,  "  so  they  said  your  Latin  smacked  of  Scotland. 
They  scented  Aberdeen  in  it.  Well,  boy,  we  beat  them,  — 
they  canna  deny  that.  The  prize  is  ours ;  the  better  that 
it  was  hardly  fought   for." 

And  thus  they  continued  for  some  time  to  talk,  as  they 
walked  side  by  side  through  the  garden,  the  old  man's  firm 
step  and  joyous  look  telling  of  the  pride  that  filled  his  heart, 
while  Herbert  poured  forth  in  happy  confidence  the  long- 
treasured  thoughts  that  crowded  his  brain ;  nor  did  they 
cease  their  converse  till  Kerry  came  to  summon  the  youth 
to  his  father's  room. 

"  He's  awake  now,"  said  Kerry,  gazing  with  undisguised 
rapture  on  the  tall  and  handsome  youth ;  "  and  it's  a  proud 
man  he  ought  to  be  this  day,  that  has  the  pair  like  ye." 

The  young  men  smiled  at  the  flattery,  and  arm-in-arm 
took  their  way  towards  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE    LULL    BEFORE   THE    STORM. 

Once  again  assembled  beneath  that  old  roof,  the  various 
members  of  the  family  seemed  more  than  ever  disposed  to 
make  present  happiness  atone  for  any  troubles  of  the  past. 
Never  was  the  old  O'Donoghue  so  contented ;  never  did  Sir 
Archy  feel  a  lighter  heart.  Herbert's  spirits  were  buoyant 
and  high  as  present  success  and  hope  could  make  them  ;  and 
Kate,  whatever  doubts  might  secretly  have  weighed  upon 
her  mind,  did  her  utmost  to  contribute  to  the  general  joy ; 
while  Mark,  over  whose  temperament  a  calmer  and  less 
variable  habit  of  thought  prevailed,  seemed  at  least  more 
reconciled  to  his  fortunes. 

The  influences  of  tranquillity  that  prevailed  over  the  land 
appeared  to  have  breathed  their  soothing  sway  over  that 
humble  dwelling,  where  life  rolled  on  like  an  unruffled  stream, 
each  day  happy  with  that  monoton}?^  of  enjoyment,  so  de- 
licious to  all  whose  minds  have  ever  been  tortured  by  the 
conflicting  cares  of  the  world. 

For  many  a  year  long  the  O'Donoghue  had  not  been  so 
free  from  troubles.  The  loan  he  had  contracted  on  Kate's 
fortune  had  relieved  him  from  his  most  pressing  embarrass- 
ments, and  left  him  money  enough  to  keep  other  creditors  at 
bay.  Sir  Archy  felt  already  he  had  received  the  earnest  of  that 
success  he  so  ardently  desired  for  Herbert,  and  in  the  calm 
of  political  life  hoped  that  the  rash  scheme  in  which  Mark 
had  embarked  was  even  now  becoming  forgotten,  and  that 
the  time  was  not  far  remote  when  no  memory  of  it  would  be 
treasured  against  him.  His  own  experience  taught  him  that 
sage  lessons  may  be  gathered  from  the  failures  and  checks  of 
youthful  ambition,  and  in  the  changed  features  of  Mark's 
character  he  argued  most  favorably  for  the  future.    But  of  all 


THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM.         63 

those  on  whom  happier  prospects  shone,  none  revelled  in  the 
enjoyment  so  much  as  Herbert.  The  fascinations  of  that  new 
world,  of  which  he  had  only  caught  a  glimpse,  hung  over 
him  like  a  dream.  Life  opened  for  him  at  a  moment  when 
he  himself  had  won  distinction,  while  a  new  passion  stirred 
his  heart,  and  stimulated  hope  to  the  utmost.  Kate,  his 
companion  throughout  every  day,  was  not  slow  to  perceive 
the  lurking  secret  of  his  thoughts,  and  soon  led  him  to  con- 
fide them  to  her.  Herbert  had  never  heard  of  Frederick 
Travers's  attachment  to  his  cousin,  still  less  suspected  he 
had  made  a  proposal  of  marriage  to  her.  The  studied  avoid- 
ance of  their  names  among  his  own  family  was  a  mystery  he 
could  not  solve,  and  he  referred  to  Kate  for  the  explanation. 

''How  strange,  Kate,"  said  he,  one  day,  as  they  wandered 
along  the  glen  somewhat  farther  than  usual,  —  "  how  singular 
is  this  silence  respecting  the  Traverses  I  I  can  make  nothing 
of  it.  If  I  speak  of  them,  no  one  speaks  again  ;  if  I  allude 
to  them,  the  conversation  suddenly  stops.  Tell  me,  if  you 
know  it,  the  secret  of  all  this." 

Kate  blushed  deeph^  and  muttered  something  about  old 
and  half-remembered  grudges,  but  he  interrupted  her  quickly, 
saying,  — 

"  This  can  scarcely  be  the  reason;  at  least,  their  feelings 
show  nothing  of  the  kind  towards  us.  Sybella  talks  of  you 
as  a  sister  nearest  to  her  heart.  Sir  Marmaduke  never  spoke 
of  you  but  with  the  warmest  terms  of  affection,  and  if  the 
gay  Guardsman  did  not  express  himself  on  the  subject, 
perhaps  it  was  because  he  felt  the  more  deeply." 

Kate's  cheek  grew  deeper  scarlet,  and  her  breathing  more 
hurried,  but  she  made  no  reply. 

"  J/y  explanation,"  continued  Herbert,  more  occupied 
with  his  own  thoughts  than  attentive  to  his  companion,  "  is 
this  —  and,  to  be  sure,  it  is  a  very  sorry  explanation  which 
elucidates  nothing  —  that  Hemsworth  is  somehow  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all.  Sybella  told  me  what  persuasions  he  em- 
ployed to  prevent  her  father  returning  to  Glenflesk ;  and 
when  everything  like  argument  failed,  that  he  actually, 
under  pretence  of  enlarging  the  house,  rendered  the  existing 
part  uninhabitable." 

"  But  what  object  could  he  have  in  this?  "  said  Kate,  who 


64  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

felt  that  Herbert  was  merely  nourishing  the  old  prejudices 
of  his  family  against  Hemsworth.  "He  is  anxious  for  the 
peace  and  welfare  of  this  country ;  he  grieves  for  the  pov- 
erty and  privations  of  the  people;  and,  whether  he  be 
correct  or  not,  deems  the  remedy  the  residence  among  them 
of  a  cultivated  and  wealth}^  proprietary  with  intelligence  to 
perceive  and  ability  to  redress  their  grievances." 

"  Very  true,  Kate,"  replied  Herbert;  "  but  don't  you  see 
that  in  these  very  requisites  of  a  resident  gentry  he  does  not 
point  at  the  Travers  family,  whose  ignorance  of  Ireland  he 
often  exposed  when  affecting  to  eulogize  their  knowledge. 
The  qualities  he  recommends  he  believes  to  be  his  own." 

''  No.  Herbert,  you  wrong  him  there,"  said  she,  warmly; 
"  he  told  me  himself  the  unceasing  regret  he  suffered,  that, 
in  his  humble  sphere,  all  efforts  for  the  people's  good  were 
ineffectual ;  that,  wanting  the  influence  which  property 
confers,  benefits  from  his  hands  became  suspected,  and 
measures  of  mere  justice  were  regarded  as  acts  of  cruelty 
and  oppression." 

"Well,  1  only  know  that  such  is  Frederick  Travers's 
opinion  of  him,"  said  Herbert,  not  a  little  piqued  at  Kate's 
unexpected  defence  of  their  ancient  enemy.  "  Frederick 
told  me  himself  that  he  would  never  cease  until  his  father 
promised  to  withdraw  the  agency  from  him.  Indeed,  he  is 
only  prevented  from  pressing  the  point  because  Hemsworth 
has  got  a  long  lease  of  part  of  the  estate,  which  they  desire 
to  have  back  again  on  any  terms.  The  land  was  let  at  a 
nominal  rent,  as  being  almost  valueless.  The  best  part  of 
the  valley  it  turns  out  to  be !  —  the  very  approach  to  the 
Lodge  passes  through  it !  —  so  that,  as  Frederick  says,  they 
could  not  reach  their  hall  door  without  a  trespass,  if  Hems- 
worth pleased  to  turn  sulky." 

Kate  felt  there  might  be  another  and  more  correct  expla- 
nation of  Frederick's  dislike,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  hint 
at  it. 

"You  are  too  favorable  in  your  opinion  of  Hemsworth, 
Kate.     Sybella  said  as  much  to  me  herself." 

"  Sybella  said  so?"  said  Kate,  as  a  flush,  half  of  shame, 
half  of  displeasure,  mantled  her  cheek. 

"Yes,''  cried  Herbert,  for  he  felt  that  he  was  in  a  diffi- 


THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM.         65 

culty,  and  there  was  no  way  out  save  the  bold  one,  of  right 
through  it — "yes,  she  saw  what  you  did  not,  that  Hems- 
worth  had  dared  to  lift  his  eyes  to  you,  —  that  all  his  dis- 
plays of  patriotic  sentiment  were  got  up  to  attract  your 
favorable  notice,  and  that  in  his  arguments  with  Frederick 
about  Ireland,  his  whole  aim  was  to  expose  the  Guardsman's 
ignorance,  and  throw  ridicule  upon  it,  neither  seeking  to 
convey  sound  notions,  nor  combat  erroneous  impressions." 

"  Captain  Travers  was  but  too  easy  a  mark  for  such 
weapons,"  said  Kate,  angrily.  "It  was  his  pleasure  to 
make  Ireland  the  object  of  his  sarcasm." 

"So  Hemsworth  contrived  it !  "  cried  Herbert,  eagerly,  for 
it  was  a  subject  of  which  he  had  long  been  anxious  to  speak, 
and  one  he  had  heard  much  of  from  Sybella.  "  I  know  well 
the  game  he  played,  and  how  successfully  too." 

Kate  blushed  deeply.  For  a  moment  she  believed  that 
her  own  secret  was  known  to  Herbert,  but  the  next  instant 
she  was  reassured  that  all  was  safe. 

"  Sybella  told  me  how  he  actually  lay  in  wait  for  oppor- 
tunities to  entice  Frederick  into  discussion  before  you,  well 
knowing  the  theme  that  would  irritate  him,  and  calculating 
how  far  petty  refutations  and  half-suppressed  sneers  would 
embarrass  and  annoy  him,  —  the  more,  because  Frederick 
saw  how  much  more  favorably  you  regarded  Hemsworth's 
sentiments  than  his  own;  and,  indeed,  sometimes  I  fancied, 
Kate,  it  was  a  point  the  Guardsman  was  very  tender  about ; 
—  nay,   sweet   cousin,   I  would    not   say  a  word    to  offend 

you." 

"Then  do  not  speak  of  this  again,  Herbert,"  said  she,  in 
a  low  voice. 

"It  is  a  luckless  land,"  said  Herbert,  sighing.  "They 
who  know  it  well  are  satisfied  with  the  cheap  patriotism  ot 
declaiming  on  its  wrongs.  They  who  feel  most  acutely  for 
its  sorrows  are,  for  the  most  part,  too  ignorant  to  alleviate 
them.  I  begin  to  think  my  uncle  is  quite  right, — that  the 
best  thing  we  could  do  would  be  to  make  a  truce —  to  draw 
the  game  —  for  some  twenty  or  thirty  years,  and  try  if  the 
new  generation  might  not  prove  wiser  in  expedients  than 
their  fathers." 

"  A  luckless  land,  indeed ! "  said  Mark,  who,  coming 
VOL.  II.  —  5 


66  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

up  at  the  moment,  had  overheard  the  last  words.  "  You 
were  right  to  call  it  so,  — where  the  son  of  an  O'Donoghue 
sees  no  more  glorious  path  to  follow  than  that  of  a  hollow 
compromise !  " 

Kate  and  Herbert  started  as  he  spoke,  and  while  her 
face  flashed  with  an  emotion  of  mingled  pride  and  shame, 
Herbert  looked  abashed,  and  almost  angry  at  the  reproach. 

"  Forgive  me,  Herbert,"  said  Mark,  in  a  voice  of  deep 
melancholy.  "  Not  even  this  theme  should  sow  a  difference 
between  us.     I  came  to  bid  you  good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  Mark!"  cried  Kate,  starting  with  terrified 
surprise. 

"Going  to  leave  us,  Mark!"  exclaimed  Herbert,  in  an 
accent  of  true  sorrow. 

"It  is  but  for  a  few  days,  — at  least  I  hope  that  it  will 
be  no  more,"  said  Mark.  "  But  I  have  received  intelligence 
that  makes  it  necessary  for  me  to  remain  in  concealment 
for  a  short  time.  You  see,  Herbert,"  said  he,  laughing, 
"  that  your  theory  has  the  advantage  on  the  score  of  pru- 
dence. Had  I  followed  it,  the  chances  are  I  should  not  have 
occupied  the  attention  of  his  Majesty's  Privy  Council." 

"The  Privy  Council!     I  don't  understand  this,  Mark." 

"Perhaps  this  is  the  easiest  mode  of  explaining  it,"  said 
Mark,  as  he  unfolded  a  printed  paper,  headed:  "Treason, 
Reward  for  the  apprehension  of  Mark  O'Donoghue,  Esq., 
or  such  information  as  may  lead  to  his  capture."  "  Is  that 
enough?  Come,  come, — I  have  no  time  for  long  stories 
just  now.  If  you  want  to  hear  mine  about  the  matter,  you 
must  visit  me  at  my  retreat,  —  the  low  shealing  at  the  west 
of  Hungry  Mountain.  At  least,  for  the  present  I  shall 
remain  there." 

"But  is  this  necessary,  Mark?  Are  you  certain  that 
anything  more  is  meant  than  to  threaten  ?  "  said  Kate. 

"  I  believe  that  Carrignacurra  will  be  searched  by  a 
military  force  to-night,  or  to-morrow  at  farthest;  that  the 
bribe  has  tempted  three  or  four  —  none  of  our  people  — 
don't  mistake  me  —  to  set  on  my  track.  If  my  remaining 
would  spare  my  father's  house  the  indignity  of  a  search, 
or  if  the  country  had  any  better  cause  at  heart  than  that  of 
one  so  valueless  as  I  am,  I  would  stay,  Kate  —  " 


THE  LULL  BEFORE  THE  STORM.         67 

"No,  no,  Mark.  This  were  but  madness,  unworthy  of 
you,  unjust  to  all  who  love  you." 

The  last  few  words  were  uttered  so  faintly  as  only  to  be 
heard  by  him  alone ;  and,  as  she  spoke  them,  a  heavy  tear 
rolled  down  her  cheek,  now  pale  as  marble. 

"  But  surely,  Mark,"  said  Herbert,  who  never  suspected 
anything  of  his  brother's  intrigues,  "this  must  proceed  on 
mere  falsehood.  There  is  no  charge  against  you,  —  you, 
whose  life  of  quiet  retirement  here  can  defy  any  calumny." 

"But  not  deny  the  truth,"  said  Mark,  with  a  sorrowful 
smile.  "  Once  for  all,  I  cannot  speak  of  these  things  now. 
My  time  is  running  fast ;  and  already  my  guide  yonder 
looks  impatient  at  my  delay.  Remember  the  shealing  at 
the  foot  of  the  mountain.  If  there  be  any  mist  about,  you 
have  but  to  whistle." 

"Is  poor  Terry  your  guide,  then?"  said  Kate,  affecting 
to  smile  with  some  semblance  of  tranquillity. 

"  My  guide  and  my  host  both,"  said  Mark,  gayly.  "  It's 
the  only  invitation  I  have  received  for  Christmas,  and  I 
accept  it  most  willingly,  I  assure  you." 

A  impatient  gesture  of  Terry's  hand,  as  he  stood  on  a 
small  pinnacle  of  rock,  about  fifty  feet  above  the  road, 
attracted  Mark's  attention,  and  he  called  out,  — 

u  Well !— what  is  it?" 

"The  dragoons!"  shouted  Terry,  in  a  terrified  voice. 
"  They're  crossing  the  ford  at  Caher-mohill,  two  miles  off  — 
eight,  nine,  ten  —  ay,  there's  twelve  now,  over;  and  the 
fellow  in  the  dark  coat,  he  's  another.  Wait !  they  're  ask- 
ing the  way  :  that 's  it,  I  'm  sure.  Well  done  !  —  my  bless- 
ing be  an  ye  this  day,  whoever  ye  are.  May  I  never!  if 
he 's  not  sending  them  wrong !  They  're  down  the  glen 
towards  Killarney ;  "  and  as  he  finished  speaking  he  sprang 
from  the  height,  and  hastened  down  the  precipice  at  a  rate 
that  seemed  to  threaten  destruction  at  every  step. 

"Even  so,  Terry,  we  have  not  more  time  than  we  need. 
It 's  a  long  journey  to  the  west  of  the  mountain ;  and  so, 
good-bye,  my  dear  cousin  —  good-bye,  Herbert,  —  a  short 
absence  it  will  be,  I  trust;"  and,  tearing  himself  away 
hurriedly,  lest  any  evidence  of  emotion  might  be  seen, 
the  young  man    ascended  the   steep  pathway  after  Terry ; 


68  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

nor  did  he  turn  his  head  round  until  distance  enabled  him 
to  look  down  unnoticed,  when  again  he  cried  out,  "  Fare- 
well !  Remember  the  west  side  of  Hungry !  "  and  waving 
his  cap,  disappeared,  while  Herbert  and  his  cousin  wended 
their  sorrowful  way  homeward. 


h 


CHAPTER  XU. 

A   DISCOVERY. 

When  Kate  arrived  at  home,  she  found  a  note  awaiting 
her,  in  Hemsworth's  handwriting,  and  marked  *'  Haste." 
Guessing  at  once  to  what  it  must  refer,  she  broke  the  seal 
with  an  anxious  heart,  and  read :  — 

My  dear  Madam,  —  I  have  been  unable  to  retard  any  longer 
the  course  of  proceedings  against  your  cousin.  It  would  seem  that 
the  charges  against  him  are  far  more  grave  and  menacing  than 
either  of  us  anticipated,  at  least  so  far  as  I  can  collect  from  the 
information  before  me.  The  Privy  Council  was  determined  on 
arresting  him  at  once.  Orders  to  support  the  warrant  by  a  mili- 
tary force  have  been  transmitted  to  officers  commanding  parties  in 
different  towns  of  the  south,  and  there  is  no  longer  a  question 
of  the  intentions  of  the  Crown  regarding  him.  But  one  of  two 
chances  is  now  open  to  him  :  to  surrender  and  take  his  trial, 
or,  should  he,  as  he  may,  without  any  imputation  on  his  cour- 
age, dread  this,  to  make  his  escape  to  the  coast,  near  Kenmare, 
where  a  lugger  will  lie  off  on  Wednesday  night.  By  this  means 
he  will  be  able  to  reach  some  port  in  France  or  Flanders ;  or, 
probably,  should  the  wind  change,  obtain  protection  from  some 
of  the  American  vessels,  which  are  reported  as  cruising  to  the 
westward. 

In  making  this  communication  to  you  I  need  scarcely  observe 
the  implicit  faith  I  repose  in  the  use  you  make  of  it.  It  is  intended 
to  be  the  means  of  providing  for  your  cousin's  safety ;  but  should 
it  by  any  accident  fall  under  other  eyes  than  yours,  it  would  prove 
the  inevitable  ruin  of  your  very  devoted  servant, 

Wm.  Hemsworth. 

*'And  they  will  not  believe  this  man's  integrity!"  ex- 
claimed Kate,  as  she  finished  reading  the  note.     "He  who 


70  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

jeopardies  his  own  station  and  character  for  the  sake  of 
one  actually  his  enemy !  Well,  their  injustice  shall  not  in- 
volve my  honor.  —  Was  it  you  brought  this  letter  ?  "  said 
she  to  Wylie,  who  stood,  hat  in  hand,   at  the  door. 

**  Yes,  my  lady,  and  I  was  told  there  might,  perhaps,  be 
an  answer." 

"  Xo, — there  is  none;  say,  'Very  well  —  that  I  have 
read  it.'     Where  is  Mr.  Hemsworth?" 

"At  Macroom.  There  was  a  meeting  of  magistrates 
there,  which  delayed  him,  and  he  wrote  this  note,  and  sent 
me  on,  instead  of  coming  himself." 

"  Say  that  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  him,  —  that's  enough," 
said  Kate,  hurriedly,  and  turned  back  again  into  the  house. 

Through  all  the  difficulties  that  beset  her  path  hitherto, 
she  had  found  Sir  Archy  an  able  and  a  willing  adviser ;  but 
now  the  time  was  come  when  not  only  must  she  act  inde- 
pendently of  his  aid,  but,  perhaps,  in  actual  opposition 
to  his  views,  —  taking  for  her  guidance  one  distrusted  by 
almost  every  member  of  her  family.  Yet  what  alternative 
remained?  —  how  betray  Hemsworth's  conduct  in  a  case 
which,  if  known,  must  exhibit  him  as  false  to  the  Govern- 
ment, and  acting  secretly  against  the  very  orders  that  were 
given  to  him?  This  she  could  not  think  of;  and  thus,  by 
the  force  of  circumstances,  was  constrained  to  accept  of 
Hemsworth  as  an  ally.  Her  anxious  deliberations  on  this 
score  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  horses 
galloping  on  the  road,  and  as  she  looked  out  the  individual 
in  question  rode  up  the  causeway,  followed  by  his  groom. 

The  O'Donoghue  was  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  musing 
over  the  sad  events  which  necessitated  Mark's  concealment, 
when  Hemsworth  entered,  heated  by  ^  long  and  fast  ride. 

''  Is  your  son  at  home,  sir,  —  your  eldest  son?  "  said  he, 
as  soon  as  a  very  brief  greeting  was  over. 

"  If  you  '11  kindly  ring  that  bell,  which  my  gout  won't 
permit  me  to  reach,  we  '11  inquire,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
a  well-affected  indifference. 

'*  I  must  not  create  any  suspicion  among  the  servants," 
said  Hemsworth,  cautiously;  "I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  some  danger  is  impending  over  him,  and  that  he  had 
better  leave  this  house  for  a  day  or  two." 


A  DISCOVERY.  71 

The  apparent  frankness  of  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke, 
threw  the  O'Donoghue  completely  off  his  guard,  and,  taking 
Hemsworth's  hand,  he  said,  — 

''  Thank  you  sincerely  for  this.  The  poor  boy  got  wind  of 
it  this  morning,  and  I  trust  before  now  has  reached  some 
place  of  safety  for  the  present.  But  what  steps  can  we 
take?  Is  there  anything  you  can  advise  us  to  do?  I'm 
really  so  bewildered  by  all  I  hear,  and  so  doubtful  of  what 
is  true  and  w^hat  false,  that  I  'm  incapable  of  an  opinion. 
Here  comes  the  only  clear  head  amongst  us.  Kate,  my  sweet 
child,  Mr.  Hemsworth,  like  a  kind  friend,  has  come  over 
about  this  affair  of  Mark's :  will  you  and  Sir  Archy  talk  it 
over  with  him?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  interruption,  sir,  but  I  must 
recall  to  your  memory  that  I  am  a  magistrate,  charged  with 
your  son's  arrest;  and  if  by  an  unguarded  expression,"  here 
he  smiled  significantly,  "  I  have  betrayed  my  instructions,  I 
rely  on  your  honor  not  to  expose  me  to  the  consequences." 

The  O'Donoghue  listened  without  thoroughly  comprehend- 
ing the  distinction  the  other  aimed  at,  and  then,  as  if  dis- 
liking the  trouble  of  a  thought  that  puzzled  him,  he  shook 
his  head  and  muttered,  "  Ay,  very  well,  — be  it  so;  my  niece 
knows  these  matters  better  than  I  do." 

"  I  agree  with  that  opinion  perfectly,"  said  Hemsworth, 
in  an  undertone;  "and  if  Miss  O'Donoghue  will  favor  me 
with  her  company  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  garden,  I  may 
be  able  to  assist  her  to  a  clear  understanding  of  the  case." 
Kate  smiled  assentingly,  and  Hemsworth  moved  towards 
the  door  and  opened  it ;  and  then,  as  if  after  a  momentary 
struggle  with  his  own  diffidence,  he  offered  her  his  arm.  This 
Kate  declined,  and  they  w^alked  along  side  by  side. 

They  had  nearly  reached  the  middle  of  the  garden  before 
Hemsworth  broke  silence.  At  last  he  said,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  "  I  fear  we  are  too  late.  Miss  O'Donoghue.  The  zeal, 
real  or  affected,  of  the  country  magistrates,  has  stimulated 
them  to  the  utmost.  There  are  spies  over  the  whole  coun- 
try, —  he  will  inevitably  be  taken." 

Kate  re-echoed  the  last  words  in  an  accent  of  deep  an- 
guish, and  was  silent. 

"Yes,"  resumed  he,   "escape  is  all  but  impossible;  for 


72  THE    O'DOXOGHUE. 

even  if  he  should  get  to  sea,  there  are  two  cruisers  on  the 
look-out  for  any  suspicious  sail." 

'*  Aud  what  if  he  were  to  surrender  and  stand  his  trial?  " 
said  Kate,  boldly. 

Hemsworth  shook  his  head  sorrowfully,  but  never  spoke. 

"What  object  can  it  be  with  any  Government  to  hunt 
down  a  rash,  inexperienced  youth,  whose  unguarded  bold- 
ness has  led  him  to  ruin?  On  whom  would  such  an  example 
tell,  or  where  would  the  lesson  spread  terror,  save  beneath 
that  old  roof  yonder,  where  sorrows  are  rife  enough 
already  ?  " 

"The  correspondence  with  France,  that's  his  danger. 
The  intercourse  with  the  disturbed  party  at  home  might  be 
palliated  by  his  youth ;  the  foreign  conspiracy  admits  of 
little  apology." 

"  And  what  evidence  have  they  of  this?  " 

"Alas!  but  too  much,  —  the  table  of  the  Privy  Council 
was  actually  covered  with  copies  of  letters  and  documents 
—  some  written  by  himself  —  almost  all  referring  to  him  as 
a  confidential  and  trusty  agent  of  the  cause.  This  cannot 
be  forgiven  him !  When  I  heard  a  member  of  the  Council 
say,  *  Jackson's  blood  is  dried  up  already,'  I  guessed  the 
dreadful  result  of  this  young  man's  capture." 

Kate  shuddered  at  these  words,  which  were  uttered  in  a 
faint  tone,  tremulous  through  emotion.  "  O  God !  "  she 
cried,  "  do  not  let  this  calamity  fall  upon  us.  Poverty, 
destitution,  banishment,  anything  save  the  death  of  a 
felon !  " 

Hemsworth  pressed  his  handkerchief  to  his  e3'es,  and 
looked  away,  as  the  young  girl,  with  upturned  face,  mut- 
tered a  brief  but  fervent  prayer  to  Heaven. 

"But  you,  so  gifted  and  experienced  in  the  world's 
ways,"  cried  she,  turning  on  him  a  glance  of  imploring 
meaning,  "can  you  not  think  of  an\'thing?  Is  there  no 
means,  however  difficult  and  dangerous,  by  which  he  might 
be  saved?  Could  not  the  honor  of  an  ancient  house  plead 
for  him?  Is  there  no  pledge  for  the  future  could  avail 
him?" 

"  There  is  but  one  such  pledge,  and  that  —  "  Here  he 
stopped  and  blushed  deeply;   and  then,  as  if  by  an  effort, 


A  DISCOVERY.  73 

resumed  :  "  Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  tempt  me  to  utter  what, 
if  once  spoken,  decides  the  destiny  of  my  life  ?  " 

He  ceased,  and  she  bent  on  him  a  look  of  wondering 
astonishment.  She  thought  that  she  had  not  heard  him 
aright,  and  amid  her  fears  of  some  vague  kind,  a  faint  hope 
struggled  that  a  chance  of  saving  Mark  yet  remained.  Per- 
haps the  mere  expression  of  doubt  her  features  assumed, 
was  more  chilling  than  even  a  look  of  displeasure,  for 
Hemsworth's  self-possession,  for  several  minutes,  seemed  to 
have  deserted  him ;  when,  at  last,  recovering  himself,  he 
said,  — 

''  Pray  think  no  more  of  my  words ;  I  spoke  them  rashly. 
I  know  of  no  means  of  befriending  this  young  man.  He 
rejected  my  counsels  when  they  might  have  served  him.  I 
find  how  impossible  it  is  to  win  confidence  from  those  whose 
prejudices  have  been  fostered  in  adverse  circumstances. 
Now,  I  am  too  late,  —  my  humble  task  is  merely  to  offer 
you  some  advice,  which  the  day  of  calamity  may  recall  to 
your  memor3\  The  Government  intends  to  make  a  severe 
example  of  his  case.  I  heard  so  much,  by  accident,  from 
the  Under  Secretary.  They  will  proceed,  in  the  event  of 
his  conviction  —  of  which  there  cannot  be  a  doubt  —  to 
measures  of  confiscation  regarding  his  property ;  timely 
intervention  might  be  of  service  here." 

This  additional  threat  of  misfortune  did  not  seem  to 
present  so  many  terrors  to  Kate's  mind  as  he  calculated 
on  its  producing.  She  stood  silent  and  motionless,  and 
appeared  scarcely  to  notice  his  words. 

"I  feel  how  barbarous  such  cruelty  is  to  an  old  and 
inoffensive  parent,"  said  Hemsworth,  "  whose  heart  is  rent 
by  the  recent  loss  of  a  son." 

"He  must  not  die,"  said  Kate,  with  a  hollow  voice;  and 
her  pale  cheek  trembled  with  a  convulsive  motion.  ''  Mark 
must  be  saved.     What  was  the  pledge  you  hinted  at?" 

Hemsworth's  eyes  flashed,  and  his  lip  curled  with  an 
expression  of  triumph.  The  moment,  long  sought,  long 
hoped  for,  had  at  length  arrived,  which  should  gratify  both 
his  vengeance  and  his  ambition.  The  emotion  passed 
rapidly  away,  and  his  features  assumed  a  look  of  subdued 
sorrow. 


74  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"  I  fear,  Miss  O'Donoghue,"  said  he,  "  that  my  hope  was 
but  like  the  straw  which  the  drowning  hand  will  grasp  at ; 
but,  tortured  as  my  mind  has  been  by  expedients,  which 
more  mature  thought  has  ever  discovered  to  be  impracti- 
cable, I  suffered  myself  to  believe  that  possible  which  my 
own  heart  forbids  me  to  hope  for." 

He  waited  a  few  seconds  to  give  her  an  opportunity  of 
speaking,  but  she  was  silent,  and  he  went  on :  — 

' '  The  guarantee  I  alluded  to  would  be  the  pledge  of  one 
whose  loyalty  to  the  Government  stands  above  suspicion; 
one  whose  services  have  met  no  requital,  but  whose  reward 
only  awaits  the  moment  of  demanding  it ;  such  a  one  as 
this  might  make  his  own  character  and  fortune  the  recog- 
nizance for  this  3'oung  man's  conduct,  and  truck  the  payment 
of  his  own  services  for  a  free  pardon." 

' '  And  Tyho  is  there  thus  highly  placed  and  willing  to 
befriend  us  ?  " 

Hemsworth  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and,  bowing  with 
deep  humility,  uttered,  in  a  low,  faint  voice,  — 

"  He  who  now  stands  before  you  !  " 

"■  You !  "  cried  Kate,  as,  clasping  her  hands  in  an  ecstasy, 
she  fixed  her  tearful  eyes  upon  him,  —  "  you  would  do  that?  " 
Then,  growing  suddenly  pale,  as  a  sick  shudder  came  over 
her,  she  said,  in  a  deep  and  broken  voice,  "At  what  price, 
sir?" 

The  steady  gaze  she  fixed  upon  him  seemed  to  awe  and 
abash  him,  and  it  was  with  unfeigned  agitation  that  he  now 
spoke. 

''  A  price  which  the  devotion  of  a  life  long  could  not  re- 
pay. Alas !  a  price  I  dare  no  more  aspire  to  than  hope 
for." 

"  Speak  plainly,  sir,"  said  Kate,  in  a  firm,  collected  tone; 
^'  this  is  not  a  moment  for  misconception.  What  part  have 
I  to  play  in  this  compact,  for  by  your  manner  I  suppose 
you  include  me  in  it?" 

"Forgive  me,  young  lady,  I  have  not  courage  to  place 
the  whole  fortunes  of  my  life  upon  one  cast ;  already  I  feel 
the  heaviness  of  heart  that  heralds  in  misfortune.  I  would 
rather  live  on  with  even  this  faint  glimmer  of  hope  than 
with  the  darkness  of  despair  forever."     His  hands  dropped 


A  DISCOVERY.  75 

powerless  at  his  side,  his  head  fell  forward  ou  his  bosom, 
and  as  if  without  an  effort  of  his  will,  almost  unconsciously 
his  lips  muttered  the  words,  "  I  love  you." 

Had  the  accents  been  the  sting  of  an  adder,  they  could 
not  have  called  up  an  expression  of  more  painful  meaning 
than  flashed  over  Kate's  features. 

••  And  this,  then,  is  the  price  you  hinted  at,  —  this  was  to 
be  the  compact." 

The  proud  look  of  scorn  she  threw  upon  him  evoked  no 
angry  feeling  in  his  breast;  he  seemed  overwhelmed  by 
sorrow,  and  did  not  dare  even  to  look  up. 

''  You  judge  me  hardly,  unfairly  too;  I  never  meant  my 
intercession  should  be  purchased.  Humble  as  I  am,  I  should 
be  still  more  unworthy,  had  I  harbored  such  a  thought.  My 
hope  was  this :  to  make  my  intervention  available,  I  should 
show  myself  linked  with  the  fortunes  of  that  house  I  tried  to 
save ;  it  should  be  a  case  where,  personally,  my  own  inter- 
est was  at  stake,  and  where  my  fortune  —  all  I  possessed  in 
the  world  —  was  in  the  scale,  if  you  consented."  Here  he 
hesitated,  faltered,  and  finally  became  silent ;  then,  passing 
his  hands  across  his  eyes,  resumed  more  rapidly,  *'  But  I 
must  not  speak  of  this ;  alas  that  my  tongue  should  have 
ever  betrayed  it !  You  have  forced  my  secret  from  me,  and 
with  it  my  happiness  forever.  Forget  this,  I  beseech  you,  — 
forget  that,  even  in  a  moment  so  unguarded,  I  dared  to  lift 
my  eyes  to  the  shrine  my  heart  has  worshipped.  I  ask  no 
pledge,  no  compact ;  I  will  do  m}"  utmost  to  save  this  youth ; 
I  will  spare  no  exertion  or  influence  I  possess  with  the 
Government ;  I  will  make  his  pardon  the  recompense  due  to 
myself :  but  if  that  be  impossible,  I  will  endeavor  to  obtain 
connivance  at  his  escape,  and  all  the  price  I  ask  for  this  is 
your  forgiveness  of  my  presumption." 

Kate  held  out  her  hand  towards  him,  while  a  smile  of 
bewitching  loveliness  played  over  her  features. 

"  This  is  to  be  a  friend  indeed,"  said  she. 

Hemsworth  bent  down  his  head  till  his  lips  rested  on  her 
fingers,  and,  as  he  did  so,  the  hot  tears  trickled  on  her  hand ; 
then,  suddenly  starting  up,  he  said,  — 

"I  must  lose  no  time.  Where  shall  I  find  your  cousin? 
—  in  what  part  of  the  country  has  he  sought  shelter?" 


f  OF   THE 

H    UNIVERSITY 

V  OF 


76  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

"  The  shealing  at  the  foot  of  Hungry  Mountain,  he  men- 
tioned to  Herbert  as  the  rendezvous  for  the  present." 

''Is  he  alone,  —  has  he  no  companion  ?  " 

"Xone;  save,  perhaps,  the  idiot  boy  who  acts  as  his 
guide  in  the  mountains." 

"  Farewell,  then,"  said  Hemsworth  ;  "  you  shall  soon  hear 
what  success  attends  my  effort,  —  farewell ;  "  and,  without 
waiting  for  more,  he  hastened  from  the  spot,  and  was  soon 
heard  descending  the  causeway  at  a  rapid  pace. 

Kate  stood  for  a  few  moments  lost  in  thought,  and  as  the 
sound  of  the  retreating  hoofs  aroused  her,  she  looked  up, 
and  muttering  to  herself,  "It  was  nobly  done!"  returned 
with  slow  steps  to  the  house. 

As  Hemsworth  spurred  his  horse,  and  urged  him  to  his 
fastest  speed,  expressions  of  mingled  triumph  and  vengeance 
burst  from  him  at  intervals.  "  Mine  at  last!  "  cried  he,  — 
"mine,  in  spite  of  every  obstacle!  Fortune  is  seldom  so 
kind  as  this,  —  vengeance  and  ambition  both  gratified  to- 
gether ;  me,  whom  they  despised  for  my  poverty  and  my  low 
birth,  —  that  it  should  be  my  destiny  to  crush  them  to  the 
dust !  "  These  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  when  his  horse, 
pressed  beyond  his  strength,  stumbled  over  a  rut  in  the  road, 
and  fell  heavily  to  the  ground,  throwing  his  rider  under  him. 

For  a  long  time  no  semblance  of  consciousness  returned, 
and  the  groom,  fearing  to  leave  him,  had  to  wait  for  hours 
until  a  country  car  should  pass,  in  which  his  wounded  master 
might  be  laid.  There  came  one  by  at  last,  and  on  this  Hems- 
worth was  laid,  and  brought  back  to  the  Lodge.  Before  he 
reached  home,  however,  sense  had  so  far  returned  as  that  he 
felt  his  accident  was  attended  with  no  serious  injury ;  the 
shock  of  the  fall  was  the  only  circumstance  of  any  gravity. 

The  medical  man  of  Macroom  was  soon  with  him,  and 
partly  confirmed  his  own  first  impressions,  but  strictly  en- 
joining rest  and  quiet,  as,  in  the  event  of  any  unusual  excite- 
ment, the  worst  consequences  might  ensue.  Hemsworth 
bore  up  under  the  injunction  with  all  the  seeming  fortitude 
he  could  muster,  but  in  his  heart  he  cursed  the  misfortune 
that  thus  delayed  the  hour  of  his  long-sought  vengeance. 

"  This  may  continue  a  week,  then?"  cried  he,  impatiently. 

The  doctor  nodded  an  assent. 


A   DISCOVERY.  77 

'*  Two  —  three  weeks,  perhaps  ?  " 

''  It  will  be  a  month,  at  least,  before  I  can  pronounce  you 
out  of  danger,"  said  the  physician,  gravely. 

"  A  month  !  Great  Heaven  !  —  a  month !  And  what  are 
the  dangers  you  apprehend,  in  the  event  of  my  not 
submitting?" 

"  There  are  several,  and  very  serious  ones,  —  inflamma- 
tion of  the  brain,   fever,  derangement  even." 

"Yes,  and  are  you  sure  this  confinement  will  not  drive 
me  mad?"  cried  he,  passionately.  "Will  you  engage  that 
my  brain  will  hold  out  against  the  agonizing  thoughts  that 
will  not  cease  to  torture  me  all  this  while?  or  can  you 
promise  that  events  will  stand  still  for  the  moment  when  I 
can  resume  my  place  once  more  among  men?" 

The  hurried  and  excited  tone  in  which  he  spoke  was  only 
a  more  certain  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  medical  fears; 
and,  without  venturing  on  any  direct  reply,  the  doctor  gave 
some  directions  for  his  treatment,  and  withdrew. 

The  physician's  apprehensions  were  well  founded.  The 
first  few  hours  after  the  accident  seemed  to  threaten  nothing 
serious;  but,  as  night  fell,  violent  headache  and  fever  set 
in,   and  before  daybreak  he  was  quite  delirious. 

No  sooner  did  the  news  reach  Carrignacurra  than  Kerry 
was  despatched  to  bring  back  tidings  of  his  state;  for, 
however  different  the  estimation  in  which  he  was  held  by 
each,  one  universal  feeling  pervaded  all,  —  of  sorrow  for 
his  disaster.  Day  after  day  Sir  Archy  or  Herbert  went 
over  to  inquire  after  him ;  but  some  chronic  feature  of  his 
malady  seemed  to  have  succeeded,  and  he  lay  in  one  un- 
varying condition  of  lethargic  unconsciousness.  In  this 
way  week  after  week  glided  over,  and  the  condition  of  the 
country  seemed  like  that  of  the  sick  man,  —  one  of  slum- 
bering apathy.  The  pursuit  of  Mark,  so  eagerly  begun,  had, 
as  it  were,  died  out.  The  proclamations  of  reward,  torn 
down  by  the  country  people  on  their  first  appearance,  were 
never  renewed,  and  the  military  party,  after  an  ineffectual 
search  through  Killarney,  directed  their  steps  northwards 
towards  Tralee,  and  soon  after  returned  to  headquarters. 
Still,  with  all  these  signs  of  security,  Mark,  whose  short 
experience  of  life  taught  him  caution,  rarely  ventured  near 


78  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Carrignacurra,  and  never  passed  more  than  a  few  moments 
beneath  his  father's  roof. 

While  each  had  a  foreboding  that  this  calm  was  but  the 
lull  that  preludes  a  storm,  their  apprehensions  took  very 
different  and  opposing  courses.  Kate's  anxieties  increased 
with  each  day  of  Hemsworth's  illness.  She  saw  the  time 
gliding  past  in  which  escape  seemed  practicable,  and  yet 
knew  not  how  to  profit  by  the  opportunity.  Sir  Archy, 
coupling  the  activity  with  which  Mark's  pursuit  was  first 
undertaken  with  the  sudden  visit  of  Hemsworth  to  the  coun- 
try, and  the  abandonment  of  all  endeavors  to  capture  him 
which  followed  on  Hemsworth's  accident,  felt  strong  sus- 
picion that  the  agent  was  the  prime  mover  in  the  whole 
affair,  and  that  his  former  doubts  were  well  founded  regard- 
ing him;  while  Herbert,  less  informed  than  either  on  the 
true  state  of  matters,  formed  opinions  which  changed  and 
vacillated  with  each  day's  experience. 

In  this  condition  of  events,  Sir  Archy  had  gone  over  one 
morning  alone,  to  inquire  after  Hemsworth,  whose  case,  for 
some  days  preceding,  was  more  than  usually  threatening, 
symptoms  of  violent  delirium  having  succeeded  to  the  dead 
lethargy  in  which  he  was  sunk.  Buried  deeply  in  his  con- 
jectures as  to  the  real  nature  of  the  part  he  was  acting,  and 
how  far  his  motives  tallied  with  honorable  intentions,  the 
old  man  plodded  wearily  on,  weighing  every  word  he  could 
remember  that  bore  upon  events,  and  carefully  endeavoring 
to  divest  his  mind  of  everything  like  a  prejudice.  Musing 
thus,  he  accidentally  diverged  from  the  regular  approach, 
and  turned  off  into  a  narrow  path  which  led  to  the  back  of 
the  Lodge;  nor  was  he  aware  of  his  mistake  till  he  saw,  at 
the  end  of  the  walk,  the  large  window  of  a  room  he  remem- 
bered as  belonging  to  the  former  building.  The  sash  was 
open,  but  the  curtains  were  drawn  closely,  so  as  to  inter- 
cept any  view  from  within  or  without.  He  observed  these 
things  as,  fatigued  by  an  unaccustomed  exertion,  he  seated 
himself  for  some  moments'  rest  on  a  bench  beneath  the 
trees. 

A  continuous  low  moaning  sound  soon  caught  his  ear. 
He  listened,  and  could  distinctly  hear  the  heavy  breathing 
of  a  sick  man,  accompanied  as  it  was  by  long-drawn  sighs. 


A  DISCOVERY.  T9 

There  were  voices,  also,  of  persons  speaking  cautiously 
together,  and  the  words,  "He  is  asleep  at  last,"  were  plainly 
audible,  after  which  the  door  closed,  and  all  was  still. 

The  solemn  awe  which  great  illness  inspires  was  felt  in 
all  its  force  by  the  old  man,  as  he  sat  like  one  spell-bound, 
and  unable  to  depart.  The  laboring  respiration  that  seemed 
to  bode  the  ebb  of  life  made  his  own  strong  heart  tremble, 
for  he  thought  how,  in  his  last  hours,  he  might  have 
wronged  him.  '"Oh,  if  I  have  been  unjust  —  if  I  have  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  last  with  ungenerous  doubt  —  forgive  me, 
Heaven;  even  now,  my  own  heart  is  half  my  accuser;'* 
and  his  lips  murmured  a  deep  and  fervent  prayer  for  that 
merciful  benevolence  which,  in  his  frail  nature,  he  denied 
to  another.  He  arose  from  his  knees  with  a  spirit  calmed, 
and  a  courage  stronger,  and  was  about  to  retire,  when  a 
sudden  cry  from  the  sick-room  arrested  his  steps.  It  was 
followed  by  another  more  shrill  and  piercing  still,  and  then 
a  horrid  burst  of  frantic  laughter.  Dreadful  as  are  the 
anguish-wrung  notes  of  suffering,  how  little  do  they  seem 
in  comparison  with  the  sounds  of  mirth  from  the  lips  of 
madness! 

"There  —  there,"  cried  a  voice  he  at  once  knew  as  Hems- 
worih's,  —  "  that 's  him;  that 's  your  prisoner  —  make  sure 
of  him  now;  remember  your  orders,  men!  —  do  you  hear? 
If  they  attempt  a  rescue,  load  with  ball,  and  fire  low  — 
mind  that,  fire  low.  Ah!  you  are  pale  enough  now;"  and 
again  the  savage  laughter  rang  out.  "Yes,  madam,"  con- 
tinued he,  in  a  tone  of  insolent  sarcasm,  "every  respect 
shall  be  shown  him,  — a  chair  in  the  dock,  a  carpet  on  the 
gallows.  You  shall  wear  mourning  for  him,  —  all  the  honey- 
moon, if  you  fancy  it.  Yes,"  screamed  he,  in  a  wild  and 
frantic  voice,  "this  is  like  revenge!  You  struck  me  once; 
you  called  me  coarse  plebeian,  too!  We  shall  be  able  to 
see  the  blood  you  are  proud  of,  —  ay,  the  blood !  the 
blood!"  And  then,  as  if  worn  out  by  exhaustion,  he 
heaved  a  heavy  sigh,  and  fell  into  deep  moaning  as  before. 

Sir  Archy,  who  felt  in  the  scene  a  direct  acknowledgment 
of  his  appeal  to  Heaven,  drew  closer  to  the  window,  and 
listened.  Gradually,  and  like  one  awaking  from  a  heavy 
slumber,  the  sick  man  stretched  his  limbs,  and  drew  a  long 


80  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

sigh,  whose  groaning  accent  spoke  of  great  debility,  and 
then,   starting  up  in  bed,   shouted,  — 

"It  is,  it  is  the  King's  warrant;  who  dares  to  oppose  it? 
Ride  in  faster,  men, — faster;  keep  together  here,  the  west 
side  of  the  mountain.  There,  there,  yonder,  near  the  beach. 
Who  was  that  spoke  of  pardon?  Never;  if  he  resists,  cut 
him  down.  Ride  for  it,  men,  ride!  "  and  in  his  mad  excite- 
ment he  arose  from  his  bed  and  gained  the  floor.  "There 
—  that's  him  yonder;  he  has  taken  to  the  mountains;  five 
hundred  guineas  to  the  hand  that  grasps  him  first!  "  And 
he  tottered  to  the  window,  and  tearing  aside  the  curtain, 
looked  out. 

Worn  and  wasted,  with  beard  unshaven  for  weeks  long, 
and  eyes  glistening  with  the  lustre  of  insanity,  the  expres- 
sion of  his  features  actually  chilled  the  heart's  blood  of  the 
old  man,  as  he  stood  almost  at  his  side,  and  unable  to  move 
away.  For  a  second  or  two  Hemsworth  gazed  on  the  other, 
as  if  some  struggling  effort  of  recognition  was  laboring  in 
his  brain ;  and  then,  with  a  mad  struggle,  he  exclaimed,  — 

"They  were  too  late;  the  Council  gave  but  eight  days. 
I  suppressed  the  proclamation  in  the  south.  Eight  days  — 
after  that,  no  pardon,  —  in  this  world  at  least,"  —  and  a 
fearful  grin  of  malice  convulsed  his  features;  then,  with  an 
altered  accent,  and  a  faint  smile,  from  which  sickness  tore 
its  oft-assumed  dissimulation,  he  said,  "I  did  everything 
to  persuade  him  to  surrender,  —  to  accept  the  gracious  favor 
of  the  Crown;  but  he  would  not,  —  no,  he  would  not!  "  — 
and,  with  another  burst  of  laughter,  he  staggered  back  into 
the  room,  and  fell  helpless  on  the  floor.  Sir  Archy  was  in 
no  compassionate  mood  at  the  moment,  and  without  bestow- 
ing a  thought  on  the  sufferer,  he  hastened  down  the  path, 
and  with  all  the  speed  of  which  he  was  capable,  returned  to 
Carrignacurra. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

THE    SHEALING.  ,       , 

Sir  Archy's  manner,  so  precise  and  measured  in  every 
occasion  of  life,  had  undergone  a  very  marked  change 
before  he  had  arrived  at  Carrignacurra;  exclamations  broke 
from  him  at  every  moment,  mingled  with  fervently  ex- 
pressed hopes  that  he  might  not  be  yet  too  late  to  rescue 
Mark  from  his  peril.  The  agitation  of  his  mind  and  the 
fatigue  of  his  exertions  completely  overcame  him;  and 
when  he  reached  the  house,  he  threw  himself  down  upon  a 
seat,   utterly  exhausted. 

"Are  you  unwell,  my  dear  uncle?"  broke  from  Kate  and 
Herbert  together,  as  they  stood  at  either  side  of  his  chair. 

"Tired,  wearied,  heated,  my  dear  children;  nothing 
more.     Send  me  Kerry  here;  I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

Kerry  soon  entered,  and  Sir  Archy,  beckoning  him  to  his 
side,  whispered  a  few  words  rapidly  into  his  ear.  Kerry 
made  no  repl}^  but  hastened  from  the  room,  and  was  soon 
after  seen  hurrying  down  the  causeway. 

"I  see,  my  dear  uncle,"  whispered  Kate,  with  a  tremu- 
lous accent,  —  "I  see  you  have  bad  tidings  for  us  this 
morning;  he  is  worse." 

'•  Waur  he  canna  be,"  muttered  Sir  Archy,  with  a  signifi- 
cance that  gave  the  words  a  very  equivocal  meaning. 

"But  there  is  still  hope.  They  told  us  yesterday  that 
to-morrow  would  be  the  crisis  of  the  malady,  —  the  twen- 
tieth day  since  his  relapse." 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  the  old  man,  who,  not  noticing  her 
remark,  pursued  aloud  the  track  of  his  own  reflections. 
*' Entrapped  —  ensnared  —  I  see  it  all  now.  And  only  eight 
days  given!  —  and  even  of  these  to  be  kept  in  ignorance. 
Poor  fellow!  how  you  have  been  duped." 

VOL.    II.  — 6 


82  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

''But  this  delirium  may  pass  away,  uncle,"  said  Kate, 
who,  puzzled  at  his  vague  expressions,  sought  to  bring  him 
again  to  the  theme  of  Hemsworth's  illness 

"Then  comes  the  penalty,  lassie,"  cried  he.  energetically. 
"The  Government  canna  forgie  a  rebel,  as  parents  do 
naughty  children,  by  the  promise  of  doing  better  next  time. 
When  a  daring  scheme  —  But  wait  a  bit,  here  's  Kerry. 
Come  to  the  window,  man,  —  come  over  here ;  "  and  he 
called  him  towards  him. 

Whatever  were  the  tidings  Kerry  brought,  Sir  Archy 
seemed  overjoyed  by  them;  and  taking  Herbert's  arm,  he 
hurried  from  the  room,  leaving  the  O'Donoghue  and  Kate 
in  a  state  of  utter  bewilderment. 

"I'm  afraid,  my  sweet  niece,  that  Hemsworth's  disease 
is  a  catching  one.  Archy  has  a  devilish  wild,  queer  look 
about  him  to-day,"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  laughing. 

*'  I  hope  he  has  heard  no  bad  news,  sir.  He  is  seldom  so 
agitated  as  this.  But  what  can  this  mean?  Here  comes  a 
chaise  up  the  road.  See,  it  has  stopped  at  the  gate,  and 
there  is  Kerry  hastening  down  with  a  portmanteau." 

Sir  Archy  entered  as  she  spoke,  dressed  for  the  road, 
and  approaching  his  brother-in-law's  chair,  whispered  a  few 
words  in  his  ear. 

"Great  Heaven  protect  us!"  exclaimed  the  O'Donoghue, 
falling  back,  half  unconscious,  into  his  seat.  While,  turn- 
ing to  Kate,  Sir  Archy  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and 
said,  — 

"My  ain  dear  bairn,  I  have  no  secrets  from  you,  but 
time  is  too  short  to  say  much  now.  Enough,  if  I  tell  you 
Mark  is  in  danger,  —  the  greatest  and  most  imminent.  I 
must  hasten  up  to  Dublin  and  see  the  Secretary,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, the  Lord  Lieutenant.  It  may  be  necessary,  perhaps, 
for  me  to  proceed  to  London.  Herbert  is  already  off  to  the 
mountains,  to  warn  Mark  of  his  peril.  If  he  can  escape 
till  I  return,  all  may  go  well  yet.  Above  all  things,  how- 
ever, let  no  rumor  of  my  journey  escape.  I  'm  only  going 
to  Macroom,  or  Cork,  mind  that,  ana  to  be  back  to-morrow 
evening,   or  next  day." 

A  gesture  from  Kerry,  who  stood  on  the  rock  above  the 
road,  warned  him  that  all  was  ready;  and,  with  an  affec- 


THE   SHEALING.  83 

tionate  but  hurried  adieu,  he  left  the  room,  and  gaining 
the  high  road,  was  soon  proceeding  towards  Dublin,  at  the 
fastest  speed  of  the  posters. 

"  Them  's  the  bastes  can  do  it,"  said  Kerry,  as  he  watched 
them  with  the  admiration  of  a  connoisseur;  ''and  the  little 
one  wid  the  rat-tail  isn't  the  worst  either." 

"Where  did  that  chaise  come  from,  Kerry?"  cried  the 
O'Donoghue,  who  could  not  account  for  the  promptitude  of 
Sir  Archy's  movements. 

"'Twas  with  Dr.  Dillon  from  Macroom  it  came,  sir,  and 
it  was  to  bring  him  back  there  again;  but  Sir  Archibald 
told  me  to  give  the  boy  a  pound  note  to  make  a  mistake, 
and  come  over  here  for  himself.     That 's  the  way  of  it." 

While  we  leave  the  O'Donoghue  and  his  niece  to  the 
interchange  of  their  fears  and  conjectures  regarding  the 
danger  which  they  both  concurred  in  believing  had  been 
communicated  to  Sir  Archy  by  Hems  worth,  we  must  follow 
Herbert,  who  was  now  on  his  way  to  the  mountains,  to 
apprise  Mark  that  his  place  of  concealment  was  already 
discovered,  and  that  measures  for  his  capture  were  taken 
in  a  spirit  that  indicated  a  purpose  of  personal  animosity. 

Herbert  knew  little  more  than  this,  for  it  was  no  part  of 
Sir  Archy's  plan  to  impart  to  any  one  his  discovery  of 
Hemsworth's  treachery,  lest,  in  the  event  of  his  recovery, 
their  manner  towards  him  would  lead  him  to  a  change  of 
tactique.  Hemsworth  was  too  cunning  an  adversary  to 
concede  any  advantage  to.  Indeed,  the  only  chance  of 
success  against  him  lay  in  taking  the  opportunity  of  his 
present  illness  to  anticipate  his  movements.  Sir  Archy, 
therefore,  left  the  family  at  Carrignacurra  in  ignorance  of 
this  man's  villany,  as  a  means  of  lulling  him  into  security. 
The  expressions  that  fell  from  him  half  unconsciously  in 
the  drawing-room,  fortunately  contributed  to  this  end,  and 
induced  both  the  O'Donoghue  and  Kate  to  believe  that, 
whatever  the  nature  of  the  tidings  Sir  Archy  had  learned, 
their  source  was  no  other  than  Hemsworth  himself,  of 
whose  good  intentions  towards  Mark  no  suspicion  existed. 

Herbert's  part  was  limited  to  the  mere  warning  of  Mark, 
that  he  should  seek  some  more  secure  resting-place;  but 
what  kind  the  danger  was,  from  whom  or  whence  it  came, 


84  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

the  youth  knew  nothing.  He  was  not,  indeed,  unaware  of 
Mark's  political  feelings,  nor  did  he  undervalue  the  effect 
his  principles  might  produce  upon  his  actions.  He  knew 
him  to  be  intrepid,  fearless,  and  determined;  and  he  also 
knew  how  the  want  of  some  regular  pursuit  or  object  in  life 
had  served  further  to  unsettle  his  notions  and  increase  the 
discontent  he  felt  with  his  condition.  If  Herbert  did  not 
look  up  to  Mark  with  respect  for  his  superior  qualities  of 
mind,  there  were  traits  in  his  nature  that  inspired  the  sen- 
timent fully  as  strongly.  The  bold  rapidity  with  which  he 
anticipated  and  met  a  danger,  the  fertile  resources  he 
evinced  at  moments  when  most  men  stand  appalled  and 
terror-struck,  the  calmness  of  his  spirit  when  great  peril 
was  at  hand,  showed  that  the  passionate  and  wayward 
nature  was  the  struggle  which  petty  events  create,  and  not 
the  real  germ  of  his  disposition. 

Herbert  foresaw  that  such  a  character  had  but  to  find  the 
fitting  sphere  for  its  exercise,  to  win  an  upward  way;  but 
he  was  well  aware  of  the  risks  to  which  it  exposed  its  pos- 
sessor. On  this  theme  his  thoughts  dwelt  the  entire  day, 
as  he  trod  the  solitary  path  among  the  mountains ;  nor  did 
he  meet  with  one  human  thing  along  that  lonely  road.  At 
last,  as  evening  was  falling,  he  drew  near  the  glen  which 
wound  along  the  base  of  the  mountain,  and  as  he  was 
endeavoring  to  decide  on  the  path,  a  low  whistle  attracted 
him.  This,  remembering  it  was  the  signal,  he  replied  to, 
and  the  moment  after  Terry  crept  from  a  thick  cover  of 
brushwood,  and  came  towards  him. 

"I  thought  I  'd  make  sure  of  j^ou  before  I  let  you  pass, 
Master  Herbert,"  cried  he,  "for  I  could  n't  see  your  face, 
the  way  your  head  was  hanging  down.  Take  the  little  path 
to  the  left,  and  never  turn  till  you  come  to  the  white-thorn 
tree;  then  straight  up  the  mountain  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
or  so,  till  you  reach  three  stones,  one  over  another.  From 
that  spot  you  '11  see  the  shealing  down  beneath  you." 

*'My  brother  is  there  now?"  said  Herbert,  inquiringly. 

"  Yes ;  he  never  leaves  it  long  now ;  and  he  got  a  bit  of  a 
fright  the  other  evening,  when  the  French  schooner  came 
into  the  bay." 

"  A  French  schooner  here,  in  the  bay  ?  " 


n 


THE   SHEALING.  85 

"Ay.  just  so;  but  with  an  English  flag  flying.  She 
landed  ten  men  at  the  point,  and  then  got  out  to  sea  as  fast 
as  she  could.     She  was  out  of  sight  before  dark." 

"And  the  men,  —  what  became  of  them?  " 

"They  sta^'ed  an  hour  or  more  with  blaster  Mark.  One 
ot  them  was  an  old  friend,  I  think;  for  I  never  saw  such 
delight  as  he  was  in  to  see  your  brother.  He  gave  him  two 
books,  and  some  paper,  and  a  bundle,  —  I  don't  know  w^hat 
was  in  it.  —  and  then  they  struck  off  towards  Kenmare 
Bay,    by  a  road  very  few  know  in  these  parts." 

All  these  particulars  surprised  and  interested  Herbert  not 
a  little;  for,  although  far  from  implicitly  believing  the  cor- 
rectness of  Terry's  tidings  as  to  the  vessel  being  a  French 
one,  yet  the  event  seemed  not  insignificant,  as  showing  that 
Mark  had  friends  who  were  aware  of  his  present  place  of 
concealment.  Without  wasting  further  time,  however,  he 
bade  Terry  good-bye,  and  started  along  the  path  down  the 
glen. 

Following  Terry's  directions,  Herbert  found  the  path, 
which,  in  many  places,  was  concealed  by  loose  furze 
bushes,  evidently  to  prevent  detection  by  strangers,  and  at 
last,  having  gained  the  ridge  of  the  mountain,  perceived 
the  little  shealing  at  the  distance  of  some  hundred  feet 
beneath  him.  It  was  merely  a  few  young  trees,  covered 
over  with  loose  sods,  which,  abutting  against  the  slope  of 
the  hill,  opened  towards  the  sea,  from  whence  the  view 
extended  along  thirty  miles  of  coast  on  either  band. 

At  any  other  moment  the  glorious  landscape  before  him 
would  have  engrossed  Herbert's  entire  attention.  The 
calm  sea,  over  which  night  was  slowly  stealing,  the  jutting 
promontories  of  rock,  over  whose  sides  the  white  foam  was 
splashing,  the  tall  dark  cliffs,  pierced  by  many  a  cave, 
through  which  the  sea  roared  like  thunder, — all  these 
caught  his  thoughts  but  for  a  second,  and  already  with 
bounding  steps  he  hurried  down  the  steep,  where  the  next 
moment  a  scene  revealed  itself  of  far  deeper  interest  to  his 
heart. 

Through  the  roof  of  the  shealing,  from  which,  in  many 
places,  the  dry  sods  had  fallen,  he  discovered  his  brother 
stretched  upon  the  earthen  floor  of  the  hut,  intently  gazing 


86  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

on  a  large  map  which  lay  widespread  before  him.  The 
figure  was  indeed  Mark's.  The  massive  head,  on  either 
side  of  which,  in  flowing  waves,  the  long  and  locky  hair 
descended,  there  was  no  mistaking.  But  the  costume  was 
one  Herbert  saw  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a  simple  uni- 
form of  blue  and  white,  with  a  single  silver  epaulette,  and 
a  sword,  hilted  with  the  same  metal.  The  chako  was  of 
dark  fur,  and  ornamented  with  a  large  bouquet  of  tri- 
colored  ribbons,  whose  gay  and  flaunting  colors  streamed 
with  a  strange  contrast  along  the  dark  earthen  floor.  Amid 
all  his  terror  for  what  these  emblems  might  portend,  his 
heart  bounded  with  pride  at  the  martial  and  handsome 
figure,  as  leaning  on  one  elbow  he  traced  with  the  other 
hand  the  lines  upon  the  map.  Unable  to  control  his  im- 
patience longer,   he  cried  out,  — 

"Mark,  my  brother!  "  and  the  next  moment  they  were  in 
each  other's  arms. 

"You  passed  Terry  on  the  mountain?  He  was  at  his 
post,   I  trust?"    said  Mark,   anxiously. 

*'Yes;  but  for  his  directions  I  could  never  have  dis- 
covered the  path." 

"All  's  well,  then.  Until  I  hear  a  certain  signal  from 
him,  I  fear  nothing.  The  fellow  seems  neither  to  eat  nor 
to  sleep.  At  least,  since  I  've  been  here,  he  has  kept  watch 
night  and  day  in  the  mountains." 

"He  always  loved  you,  Mark." 

"He  did  so;  but  now  it  is  not  me  he  thinks  of.  His 
whole  heart  is  in  the  cause,  —  higher  and  nobler  than  a 
mere  worthless  life  like  mine." 

"Poor  fellow!  he  is  but  half-witted  at  best,"  said 
Herbert. 

"The  more  reason  for  his  fidelity  now."  said  Mark,  bit- 
terly. "The  men  of  sense  are  traitors  lo  their  oaths,  and 
false  to  their  friends.  The  enterprise  cannot  reckon  save 
on  the  fool  or  the  madman.  I  know  the  taunt  you  hint  at, 
as  —  " 

"My  dearest  brother,"  cried  Herbert,  with  streaming 
eyes. 

"My  own  dear  Herbert,  forgive  me,"  said  Mark,  as  he 
flung  his  arm  round  his  neck.     "These  bursts  of  passion 


THE   SHEALING.  87 

come  ever  me  after  long  and  weary  thoughts.  I  am  tired 
to-day.     Tell  me,  how  are  they  all  at  Carrignacurra?*' 

"Well,  and  1  would  say  happy,  Mark,  were  it  not  for 
their  anxieties  about  you.  My  uncle  heard  some  news 
to-day  so  threatening  in  its  nature  that  he  has  set  out  for 
Dublin  post  haste,  and  merely  wrote  these  few  lines,  which 
he  gave  me  for  you  before  he  started." 

Mark  read  the  paper  twice  over,  and  then  tearing  it, 
threw  the  fragments  at  his  feet,  while  he  muttered,  — 

''I  cannot,  I  must  not  leave  this." 

''But  your  safety  depends  on  it,  Mark;  so  my  uncle 
pressed  upon  me.  The  danger  is  imminent,  and,  he  said, 
fatal." 

"So  would  it  be  were  I  to  leave  my  post.  I  cannot  tell 
you,  Herbert,  —  I  dare  not  reveal  to  you  what  our  oath  for- 
bids me, — but  here  I  must  remain." 

"And  this  dress,  Mark;  why  increase  the  risk  you  run 
by  a  uniform  which  actually  designates  treason?  " 

"Who  will  dare  tell  me  so?"  cried  Mark,  impetuously. 
"The  uniform  is  that  of  a  French  grenadier,  the  service 
whose  toil  is  glory,  and  whose  cause  is  liberty.  It  is  enough 
that  I  do  not  wear  it  without  authority.  You  can  satisfy 
yourself  on  that  head  soon.  Read  this ;  "  and  he  unfolded 
a  paper  which,  bearing  the  arms  and  seal  of  the  French 
Republic,  purported  to  be  a  commission  as  lieutenant  in 
Hoche's  own  regiment  of  Grenadiers,  conferred  on  Mark 
O'Donoghue  in  testimony  of  esteem  for  his  fidelity  to  the 
cause  of  Irish  independence.  "You  are  surprised  that  I 
can  read  the  language,  Herbert,"  said  he,  smiling;  "but  I 
have  labored  hard  this  summer,  and,  with  Kate's  good  aid, 
have  made  some  progress." 

"And  is  your  dream  of  Irish  independence  brought  so 
low  as  this,  Mark,  that  the  freedom  you  speak  of  must  be 
won  by  an  alien's  valor?" 

"They  are  no  aliens  whose  hearts  beat  alike  for  liberty. 
Language,  country,  seas  may  divide  us,  but  we  are  brothers 
in  the  glorious  cause  of  humanity.  Their  swords  are  with 
us  now,  as  would  be  ours  for  them,  did  the  occasion  demand 
them.  Besides,  we  must  teach  the  traitors,  boy,  that  we 
can  do  without  them ;  that  if  her  own  sons  are  false,  Ireland 
has    friends    as    true;    and    then,    woe   to    them    who    have 


88  THE   O'DONOGHUB. 

betrayed  her!  Oh,  m}^  brother,  the  brother  of  my  heart, 
how  would  I  kneel  iu  thankfulness  to  Heaven  if  the  same 
hopes  that  stirred  within  me  were  yours  also ;  if  the  genius 
you  possess  were  enlisted  in  the  dear  cause  of  your  own 
country ;  if  we  could  go  forth  together,  hand  in  hand,  and 
meet  danger  side  by  side,   as  now  we  stand." 

"My  love  for  you  would  make  the  sacrifice,  Mark,"  said 
Herbert,  as  the  tears  rolled  heavily  along  his  cheek;  "but 
my  convictions,  my  reason,  my  religion,  alike  forbid  it." 

"Your  religion,  Herbert?     Did  1  hear  you  aright?  " 

"You  did.     I  am  a  Protestant." 

Mark  fell  back  as  his  brother  spoke;  a  cold  leaden  tinge 
spread  over  his  features,  and  he  seemed  like  one  laboring 
against  the  sickness  of  an  ague. 

"Oh,  is  it  not  time,"  cried  he,  as  he  clasped  his  hands 
above  his  head,  and  shook  them  in  an  agony  of  emotion,  — 
"  is  it  not  time  to  strike  the  blow  ere  every  tie  that  bound 
us  to  the  land  should  be  rent  asunder!  Rank,  place,  wealth, 
and  power  they  have  despoiled  us  of;  our  faith  degraded, 
our  lineage  scoffed;  and  now  the  very  links  of  blood 
divided,  —  we  have  not  brothers  left  us !  " 

Herbert  bent  down  his  head  upon  his  knees,  and  wept 
bitterly. 

"Who  will  tell  me  I  have  not  been  tried  now?"  con- 
tinued Mark,  in  a  strain  of  impassioned  sorrow.  "Deceived 
on  every  hand ;  robbed  of  my  heritage ;  my  friends  all  false ; 
my  father  —  "  He  stopped  short,  for  at  the  moment  Her- 
bert looked  up,   and  their  eyes  met. 

"What  of  our  father,  Mark?  " 

"My  brain  was  wandering  then,"  said  Mark,  in  a  broken 
voice.  "Once  more  I  ask  forgiveness.  We  are  brothers 
still;  if  we  be  but  true  of  heart  to  Him  who  knows  all 
hearts.  He  will  not  suffer  us  to  be  divided.  Can  you 
remain  awhile  with  me,  Herbert?  I  know  you  don't  mind 
a  rough  bivouac." 

"Yes,  Mark,  I'll  not  leave  you.  All  is  well  at  home, 
and  they  will  guess  what  cause  detained  me."  So  saying, 
the  two  brothers  sat  down  side  by  side,  and  with  hands 
clasped  firmly  in  each  other,  remained  sunk  in  silent 
thought. 

The  whole  night  through  they  talked   together.     It  was 


THE   SHEALING. 


89 


the  first  moment  for  many  a  long  year  since  they  had  un- 
burdened their  hearts  like  brothers,  and  in  the  fulness  of 
their  affection  the  most  secret  thoughts  were  revealed,  save 
one  topic  only,  of  which  neither  dared  to  speak ;  and  while 
each  incident  of  the  past  was  recalled,  and  friends  were 
mentioned,  Mark  never  once  alluded  to  Kate,  nor  did 
Herbert  utter  the  name  of  Sybella  Travers. 

Of  his  plans  for  the  future  Mark  made  no  secret;  he  had 


I 


accepted  a  commission  in  the  French  army,  on  the  under- 
standing that  an  invasion  of  Ireland  was  determined  on,  in 
the  event  of  which  his  services  would  be  of  some  value. 
He  hoped  to  reach  France  by  the  schooner,  which,  after 
landing  her  cargo  near  the  mouth  of  the  Shannon,  was  to 
return  at  once  to  Cherbourg;  once  there,  he  was  to  enter 
the  service  and  learn   its   discipline. 

"I  have  made  my  bargain  with  them;  my  face  is  never 
to  turn  from  England  till  Ireland  be  free;  after  that  I  am 
theirs,  to  march  on  the  Rhine  or  the  Danube,  —where  they 
will.  Personal  ambition  I  have  none;  to  serve  as  a  simple 
grenadier  in  the  ranks  of  that  army  that  shall  first  plant  the 
standard  of  liberty  here,  such  is  my  only  compact.  Speak 
to  me  of  defeat  or  disaster  if  you  will,  but  do  not  endeavor 


90  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

to  persuade  me  against  an  enterprise  I  have  resolved  to  go 
through  with,  nor  try  to  argue  with  me  where  my  impulses 
are  stronger  than  my  reason." 

In  this  strain  Mark  spoke,  and  while  Herbert  listened  in 
sorrow,  he  knew  too  well  his  brother's  nature  to  offer  a 
word  of  remonstrance  in  opposition  to  his  determination. 

Mark,  on  his  side,  led  his  brother  to  talk  of  many  of  his 
own  plans  for  the  future,  where  another  and  a  very  differ- 
ent ambition  was  displayed.  Herbert  had  entered  the  lists 
where  intellect  and  genius  are  the  weapons,  and  in  his  early 
triumphs  had  conceived  that  passion  for  success  which, 
once  indulged,  only  dies  with  life  itself.  The  day  broke 
upon  them  thus  conversing,  and  already  the  sunlight  was 
streaming  over  the  western  ocean,  as  they  lay  down  side  by 
side,  and  slept. 


I 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

THE    CONFEDERATES. 

The  paroxysm  which  Sir  Archibald  had  witnessed  formed 
the  crisis  of  Hemsworth's  malady;  and  on  the  evening  of 
the  same  day  his  disease  had  so  far  abated  of  its  violence 
that  his  delirium  had  left  him,  and  excessive  debility  was 
now  the  only  symptom  of  great  danger  remaining.  With 
the  return  of  his  faculties  came  back  his  memory,  clear  and 
unclouded,  of  every  incident  up  to  the  very  moment  of 
his  accident;  and  as  he  lay,  weak  and  wasted  on  his  bed, 
his  mind  reverted  to  the  plans  and  projects  of  which  his 
illness  had  interrupted  the  accomplishment.  The  excite- 
ment of  the  theme  seemed  rather  to  serve  than  be  hurtful  to 
him;  and  the  consciousness  of  returning  health  gave  a 
spring  to  his  recovery.  Fatigue  of  thought  induced  deep 
sleep,  and  he  awoke  on  the  following  day  refreshed  and 
recruited. 

The  lapse  of  time  in  illness  is,  probably,  one  of  the  most 
painful  thoughts  that  await  upon  recovery.  The  lethargy 
in  which  we  have  been  steeped  simulates  death;  while  the 
march  of  events  around  us  shows  how  insignificant  our 
existence  is,  and  how  independently  of  us  the  work  of 
life  goes  on. 

When  Wylie  was  summoned  to  his  master's  bedside,  the 
first  question  put  to  him  was,  what  day  of  the  month  it 
was?  and  his  astonishment  was,  indeed,  great  as  he  heard 
it  was  the  16th  of  December,  and  that  he  had  been  above 
two  months  on  a  sick-bed. 

"Two  months  here!  "  cried  he;  "and  what  has  happened 


since  r 


9„ 


"Scarcely  anything,  sir,"  said  Wylie,  well  knowing  the 
meaning  of  the  question.  "The  country  is  quiet  —  the 
people   tranquil.     Too   much    so,    perhaps,    to    last.     The 


92  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

young  O'Donoghue  has  not  been  seen  up  the  glen  for 
several  weeks  past;  but  his  brother  passes  frequently  from 
Carrignacurra  to  the  coast,  and  back  again,  so  that  there  is 
little  doubt  of  his  still  being  in  his  old  hiding-place. 
Talbot  —  Barringtou,  I  mean  —  has  been  here  again,  too." 

"Barrington!  —  what  brings  him  back?  I  thought  he 
was  in  France." 

"The  story  goes  that  he  landed  at  Bantry  with  a  French 
agent.  One  thing  is  certain,  the  fellow  had  the  impudence 
to  call  here  and  leave  his  card  for  you,  one  day  1  was  at 
Macroom." 

"That  piece  of  boldness  bodes  us  no  good,"  said  Hems- 
worth.  "What  of  the  others?  Who  has  called  here  from 
Carrignacurra  ?  " 

"A  messenger  every  day;  sometimes  twice  in  the  same 
day." 

''A  messenger!  —  not  one  of  the  family?  " 

"For  several  weeks  they  have  had  no  one  to  come.  Sir 
Archy  and  the  younger  brother  are  both  from  home." 

"Where,  then,  is  Sir  Archy?  "  said  Hemsworth, 
anxiously. 

"That  would  seem  a  secret  to  every  one.  He  left  this 
one  morning  at  a  moment's  notice,  taking  the  chaise  that 
brought  the  doctor  here.  The  postboy  pretended  he  was 
discharged;  but  I  say  that  the  excuse  was  made  up,  and 
that  the  fellow  was  bribed.  On  reaching  Macroom,  the  old 
man  got  fresh  horses  and  started  for  Cork." 

"And  what 's  the  report  in  the  country,  Wylie?  " 

"  There  are  two  stories.  One,  that  he  heard  some  rumors 
of  an  accusation  against  himself,  for  intriguing  with  the 
United  People,  and  thought  best  to  go  over  to  Scotland  for 
a   while." 

"That 's  folly;  what  is  the  other  rumor?  " 

"A  more  likely  one,"  said  Wylie,  as  he  threw  a  shrewd 
glance  beneath  his  half-closed  eyelids.  "They  say  that  he 
determined  to  go  up  to  Dublin,  and  see  the  Lord  Lieutenant, 
and  ask  him  for  a  free  pardon  for  Mark." 

Hemsworth  sprang  up  in  the  bed  at  these  words,  as  if  he 
had  been  stung. 

"And  who  says  this,  Wylie?  " 


THE   CONFEDERATES.  93 

"I  believe  I  was  the  first  that  said  so  myself,"  said 
Wylie,  affecting  modesty,  ''when  Kerry  told  me  that  the 
old  man  packed  up  a  court-dress  and  a  sword." 

"You're  right,  Sam;  there's  not  a  doubt  of  it.  How 
long  is  this  ago?  " 

"Five  weeks  on  Tuesday  last." 

"Five  weeks;  —  five  weeks  lost  already!  And  have  you 
heard  what  has  been  done  by  him?  —  what  success  he's 
met  with?" 

"No,  sir;  but  you  can  soon  know  something  about  it 
yourself." 

"How  do  you  mean?     I  don't  understand  you." 

"These  are  the  only  two  letters  he  has  written  as  yet. 
This  one  came  on  Saturday.  I  always  went  down  in  the 
mornings  to  Mary  M'Kelly's  before  the  bag  came  in,  and 
as  she  could  not  read  over  well,  I  sorted  the  letters  for 
her  myself,   and  slipped  in  these  among  your  own." 

Hemsworth  and  his  companion  exchanged  looks.  Prob- 
ably never  did  glances  more  rapidly  reveal  the  sentiments 
of  two  hearts.  Each  well  knew  the  villany  of  the  other; 
but  Hemsworth,  for  the  first  time,  saw  himself  in  another's 
power,  and  hesitated  how  far  the  advantage  of  the  discovery 
was  worth  the  heavy  price  he  should  pay  for  it;  besides 
that,  the  habits  of  his  life  made  him  regard  the  breach  of 
confidence,  incurred  in  reading  another  man's  letter,  in  a 
very  different  light  from  his  under-bred  associate,  and  he 
made  no  gesture  to  take  them  from  his  hand. 

"This  has  an  English  post-mark,"  said  Wylie,  pur- 
posely occupying  himself  with  the  letter  to  avoid  noticing 
Hemsworth's  hesitation. 

"You  have  not  broken  the  seals,  I  hope,"  said  Hems- 
worth,  faintly. 

"No,  sir;  I  knew  better  than  that,"  replied  Wylie,  with 
well-assumed  caution.  "I  knew  your  honor  had  a  right  to 
it  if  you  suspected  the  correspondence  was  treasonable, 
because  you're  in  the  commission,  and  it's  your  duty,  but 
I  could  n't  venture  it  of  m3^self." 

"I'm  afraid  your  law  is  not  very  correct.  Master  Wylie," 
said  Hemsworth,  who  felt  by  no  means  certain  as  to  the 
sincerity  of  the  opinion. 


94  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"It  's  good  enough  for  Glenflesk,  anyhow,"  said  the  fel- 
low, boldly;  for  he  saw  that  in  Hems  worth's  present  ner- 
vous condition  audacity  might  succeed  where  subserviency 
would  not. 

"By  which  you  mean  that  we  have  the  case  in  our  own 
hands,  AYylie.  Well,  you  're  not  far  wrong  in  that;  still  I 
cannot  break  open  a  letter." 

"Well,  then,  I'm  not  so  scrupulous  when  my  master's 
interests  are  concerned ; "  and,  so  saying,  he  tore  open  each 
in  turn,  and  threw  them  on  the  bed.  "There,  sir,  you  can 
transport  me  for  the  offence  whenever  you  like." 

"You  are  a  strange  fellow,  Sam,"  said  Hemsworth,  whose 
nerves  were  too  much  shaken  by  illness  to  enable  him  to 
act  with  his  ordinary  decision ;  and  he  took  up  one  of  the 
letters  and  perused  it  slowly.  "This  is  merely  an  an- 
nouncement of  his  arrival  in  Dublin;  he  has  waited  upon, 
but  not  seen,  the  Secretary;  finds  it  difficult  to  obtain  an 
audience;  press  of  parliamentary  business  for  the  new 
session;  no  excitement  about  the  United  party.  What 
tidings  has  the  other?  Ha!  what's  this?"  and  his  thin 
and  haggard  face  flushed  scarlet.  "Leave  me,  Sam;  I 
must  have  a  little  time  to  consider  this.  Come  back  to  me 
in  an  hour." 

Wylie  said  not  a  word,  but  moved  towards  the  door, 
while  in  his  sallow  features  a  savage  smile  of  malicious 
triumph  shone. 

As  Hemsworth  flattened  out  the  letter  before  him  on  the 
bed,  his  eyes  glistened  and  sparkled  with  the  fire  of  aroused 
intelligence;  the  faculties  which,  during  his  long  illness, 
had  lain  in  abeyance,  as  ir  refreshed  and  invigorated  by 
rest,  were  once  more  excited  to  their  accustomed  exercise; 
and  over  that  face,  pale  and  haggard  by  sickness,  a  flush 
of  conscious  power  stole,  lighting  up  every  lineament  and 
feature,  and  displaying  the  ascendancy  of  mental  effort 
over  mere  bodily  infirmity. 

"And  so  this  Scotchman  dares  to  enter  the  list  with  me," 
said  he,  with  a  smile  of  contemptuous  feeling;  "let  him 
try  it." 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

THE    MOUNTAIN   AT    SUNRISE. 

A  LITTLE  lower  down  the  valley  than  the  post  occupied  by 
Terry  as  his  look-out  was  a  small  stream,  passable  by  step- 
ping-stones; this  was  the  usual  parting-place  of  the  two 
brothers  whenever  Herbert  returned  home  for  a  day  or  so, 
and  this  limit  Mark  rarely  or  never  transgressed,  regarding 
it  as  the  frontier  of  his  little  dominion.  Beside  this  rivu- 
let, as  night  was  falling,  Mark  sat,  awaiting  with  some 
impatience  his  brother's  coming,  for  already  the  third 
evening  had  passed  in  which  Herbert  promised  to  be  back, 
and  yet  he  had  not  come. 

Alternately  stooping  to  listen,  or  straining  his  eyes  to 
see,  he  waited  anxiously;  and  while  canvassing  in  his  mind 
every  possible  casualty  he  could  think  of  to  account  for 
his  absence,  he  half  resolved  on  pushing  forward  down  the 
glen,  and,  if  necessary,  venturing  even  the  whole  way  to 
Carrignacurra.  Just  then  a  sound  caught  his  ear;  he  lis- 
tened, and  at  once  recognized  Terry's  voice,  as,  singing 
some  rude  verse,  he  came  hastening  down  the  glen  at  his 
full  speed. 

"Ha!  I  thought  you  'd  be  here,"  cried  he,  with  delight  in 
his  countenance;  "I  knew  you  'd  be  just  sitting  there  on 
that  rock." 

"  What  has  happened,  then,  Terry,  that  you  wanted  me  ?  " 

"It  was  a  message  a  man  in  sailor's  clothes  gave  me  for 
your  honor  this  morning,  and  somehow  I  forgot  to  tell 
you  of  it  when  you  passed,  though  he  charged  me  not  to 
forget  it." 

"What  is  it,  Terry?" 

"Ah,  then,  that 's  what  I  misremember,  and  I  had  it  all 
right  this  morning.     Let  me  think  a  bit." 


96  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Mark  repelled  every  s^niiptom  of  impatience,  for  he  well 
knew  how  the  slightest  evidences  of  dissatisfaction  on  his 
part  would  destroy  every  chance  of  the  poor  fellow  regain- 
ing his  memory,  and  he  waited  silently  for  several  minutes. 
At  last,  thinking  to  aid  his  recollection,  he  said,  — 

"The  man  was  a  smuggler,  Terry?  " 

"He  was,  but  I  never  saw  him  before.  He  came  across 
from  Kinsale  over  the  mountains.  Botheration  to  him, 
why  did  n't  he  say  more,  and  I  would  n't  forget  it  now?  " 

"Have  patience,  you  '11  think  of  it  all  by-and-by." 

"Maybe  so.  He  was  a  droll-looking  fellow,  with  a  short 
cutlash  at  his  side,  and  a  hairy  cap  on  his  head,  and  he 
seemed  to  know  your  honor  well,   for  he  said,  — 

"  'How  is  the  O'Donoghues,  —  don't  they  live  here- 
abouts ?  ' 

"'Yes,'  says  I,  'a  few  miles  down  that  way.' 

"*Is  the  eldest  boy  at  home?  '   says  he. 

'"Maj^be  he  is,  and  maybe  he  isn't,'  says  I,  for  I 
would  n't  tell  him  where  you  were. 

"'Could  you  give  him  a  message,'  says  he,  'from  a, 
friend?  ' 

"  'Av  it  was  a  friend,'  says  I. 

"'A  real  friend,'  says  he.  'Tell  him  —  just  tell  him  —  ' 
There  it  is  now,  — divil  a  one  o'  me  knows  what  he  said." 

Mark  suffered  no  sign  of  anger  to  escape  him,  but  sat 
without  speaking  a  word,  while  Terry  recapitulated  every 
sentence  in  a  muttering  voice,  to  assist  him  in  remembering 
what  followed. 

"I  have  it  now,"  said  he,  at  last;  and  clapping  his  hands 
with  glee,  he  cried  out,  "them  's  the  very  words  he  said: 

"  'Tell  Mr.  Mark  it 's  a  fine  sight  to  see  the  sun  rising 
from  the  top  of  Hungry  Mountain ;  and  if  the  wind  last,  it 
will  be  worth  seeing  to-morrow.'" 

"Were  those  his  words?"  asked  Mark,  eagerly. 

"Them,  and  no  other;  I  have  it  all  in  my  head  now." 

"Which  way  did  he  take  when  he  left  you?  " 

"He  turned  up  the  glen,  towards  Googawu  Barra,  and  I 
seen  him  crossing  the  mountain  afterwards.  But  here 
comes  Master  Herbert."  And  at  the  same  instant  he  was 
Been  coming  up  the  valley  at  a  fast  pace. 


THE   MOUNTAIN  AT   SUNRISE.  97 

When  the  first  greetings  were  over,  Herbert  informed 
Mark  that  a  certain  stir  and  movement  in  the  glen  and  its 
neighborhood  for  the  last  few  days  had  obliged  him  to 
greater  caution ;  that  several  strangers  had  been  seen  lurk- 
ing about  Carrignacurra;  and  that,  in  addition  to  the  mili- 
tary posted  at  Mary's,  a  sergeant's  guard  had  that  morning 
arrived  at  the  Lodge,  and  taken  up  their  quarters  there. 
All  these  signs  of  vigilance  combined  to  make  Herbert 
more  guarded,  and  induced  him  to  delay  for  a  day  or  two 
his  return  to  the  shealing. 

"Hemsworth  has  been  twice  over  to  our  house,"  con- 
tinued Herbert,  "and  seems  most  anxious  about  you;  he 
cannot  understand  why  we  have  not  heard  from  my  uncle. 
It  appears  to  me,  Mark,  as  if  difficulties  were  thickening 
around  us ;  and  yet  this  fear  may  only  be  the  apprehension 
which  springs  from  mystery.  I  cannot  see  my  way  through 
this  dark  and  clouded  atmosphere." 

"Never  fret  about  the  dangers  that  come  like  shadows, 
Herbert.  Come  up  the  mountain  with  me  to-morrow  at 
sunrise,  and  let  us  take  counsel  from  the  free  and  bracing 
air  of  the  peak  of  old  Hungry." 

Herbert  was  but  too  happy  to  find  his  own  gloomy 
thoughts  so  well  combated,  and  in  mutual  converse  they 
each  grew  lighter  in  heart;  and  when  at  last,  wearied  out, 
they  lay  down  upon  the  heather  of  the  shealing,  they  slept 
without  a  dream. 

It  was  still  dark  as  midnight  when  Mark  awoke  and 
looked  at  his  watch:  it  wanted  a  quarter  to  four.  The 
night  was  a  wild  and  gusty  one,  with  occasional  showers 
of  thin  sleet,  and  along  the  shore  the  sea  beat  heavily,  as 
though  a  storm  was  brewing  at    a  distance  off. 

The  message  of  the  smuggler  was  his  first  thought  on 
waking,  but  could  he  venture  sufficient  trust  in  Terry's 
version  to  draw  any  inference  from  it?  Still,  he  resolved 
to  ascend  the  mountain,  little  favorable  as  the  weather 
promised  for  such  an  undertaking.  It  was  not  without 
reluctance  that  Herbert  found  himself  called  upon  to  accom- 
pany his  brother.  The  black  and  dreary  night,  the  swoop- 
ing wind,  the  wet  spray,  drifting  up  to  the  very  shealing, 
were  but  sorry  inducements  to  stir  abroad ;  and  he  did  his 


98  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

utmost  to  persuade  him  to  defer  the  excursion  to  a  more 
favorable  moment. 

"  We  shall  be  wet  through,  and  see  nothing  for  our  pains, 
Mark,"  said  he,  half  sulkily,  as  the  other  overruled  each 
objection   in   turn. 

"Wet  we  may  possibly  be,"  said  Mark;  "but  with  the 
wind,  northing  by  west,  the  mist  will  clear  away,  and  by 
sunrise  the  coast  will  be  glorious ;  it  is  a  spring  tide,  too, 
and  there  will  be  a  sea  running  mountains  high." 

"  I  know  well  we  shall  find  ourselves  in  a  cloud  on  the  top 
of  the  mountain;  it  is  but  one  day  in  a  whole  year  any- 
thing can  be  seen  favorably." 

"And  who  is  to  say  this  is  not  that  day?  It  is  my  birth- 
day, Herbert,  —  a  most  auspicious  event,  when  we  talk  of 
fortunate  occurrences." 

The  tone  of  sarcasm  he  spoke  these  words  in  silenced 
Herbert's  scruples,  and  without  further  objection  he  pre- 
pared to  follow  Mark's  guidance. 

The  drifting  rain,  and  the  spongy  heavy  ground  in  which 
at  each  moment  the  feet  sank  to  the  very  instep,  made  the 
way  toilsome  and  weary,  and  the  tw^o  brothers  seldom  spoke 
as  they  plodded  along  the  steep  ascent. 

Mark's  deep  preoccupation  of  mind  took  away  all 
thought  of  the  dreary  road;  but  Herbert  followed  with 
reluctant  steps,  half  angry  with  himself  for  compliance 
with  what  he  regarded  as  an  absurd  caprice.  The  way  was 
not  without  its  perils,  and  Mark  halted  from  time  to  time 
to  warn  his  brother  of  the  danger  of  some  precipice,  or  the 
necessity  to  guard  against  the  slippery  surface  of  the 
heather.  Except  at  these  times  he  rarely  spoke,  but  strode 
on  with  firm  step,   lost  in  his  own  reflections. 

"We  are  now  twelve  hundred  feet  above  the  lake, 
Herbert,"  said  he,  after  a  long  silence  on  both  sides,  "and 
the  mountain  at  this  side  is  like  a  wall.  This  same  island 
of  ours  has  noble  bulwarks  for  defence." 

Herbert  made  no  reply ;  the  swooping  clouds  that  hurried 
past,  heavily  charged  with  vapor,  shut  out  every  object, 
and  to  him  the  rugged  path  was  a  dark  and  cheerless  way. 
Once  more  they  continued  their  ascent,  which  here  became 
steeper   and   more   diflflcult   at   every   step;    and    although 


THE   MOUNTAIN  AT  SUNRISE.  99 

Mark  was  familiar  with  each  turn  and  winding  of  the 
narrow  track,  more  than  once  he  was  obliged  to  stop  and 
consider  the  course  before  him.  Herbert,  to  whom  these 
interruptions  were  fresh  sources  of  irritation,  at  length 
exclaimed,  — 

"My  dear  Mark,  have  we  not  gone  far  enough  yet  to 
convince  you  that  there  is  no  use  in  going  farther?  It  is 
dark  as  midnight  this  moment;  you  yourself  are  scarcely 
certain  of  the  way,  —  there  are  precipices  and  gullies  on 
every  side;  and  grant  that  we  do  reach  the  top  for  sun- 
rise, what  shall  we  be  able  to  see  amid  the  immense  masses 
of  cloud  around  us  ?  " 

"No,  Herbert,  the  same  turning-back  policy  it  is  which 
thwarts  success  in  life.  Had  you  yourself  followed  such  an 
impulse,  you  had  not  gained  the  honors  that  are  yours. 
Onward,  is  the  word  of  hope  to  all.  And  what  if  the  day 
should  not  break  clearly,  it  is  a  fine  thing  to  sit  on  the 
peak  of  old  Hungry,  with  the  circling  clouds  wheeling 
madly  below  you,  to  hear  the  deep  thundering  of  the  sea, 
far,  far  way,  and  the  cry  of  the  curlew  mingling  with  the 
wailing  wind,  —  to  feel  yourself  high  above  the  busy  world, 
in  the  dreary  region  of  mist  and  shadow.  If  at  such  times 
as  this  the  eye  ranges  not  over  the  leagues  of  coast  and 
sea,  long  winding  valleys  and  wide  plains,  the  prophetic 
spirit  fostered  by  such  agencies  looks  out  in  life,  and 
images  of  the  future  flit  past  in  cloudy  shapes  and  chang- 
ing forms.  There,  see  that  black  mass  that  slowly  moves 
along,  and  seems  to  beckon  us  with  giant  arms.  You  'd 
not  reject  an  augury  so  plain." 

"I  see  nothing,  and  if  I  go  on  much  farther  this  way,  I 
shall  feel  nothing  either,  I  am  so  benumbed  with  cold  and 
rain  already." 

"Here,  then,  taste  this:  I  had  determined  to  give  you 
nothing  until  we  reached  the  summit." 

Herbert  drained  the  little  measure  of  whiskey,  and 
resumed  his  way  more  cheerily. 

"There  is  a  bay  down  here  beneath  where  we  stand,  —  a 
lovely  little  nook  in  summer,  with  a  shore  like  gold,  and 
waves  bright  as  the  greenest  emerald.  It  is  a  wild  and 
stormy  spot  to-day,  —  no  boat  could  live  a  moment  there; 


100  THE  O'DOXOGHUE. 

and  so  steep  is  the  cliff,  this  stone  will  find  its  way  to  the 
bottom  within  a  minute." 

And  as  Mark  spoke  he  detached  a  fragment  of  rock 
from  the  mountain,  and  sent  it  bounding  over  the  edge  of 
the  precipice,  while  Herbert,  awe-struck  at  the  nearness  of 
the  peril,  recoiled  instinctively  from  the  brink  of  the  cliff. 

"There  was  a  ship  of  the  Spanish  Armada  wrecked  in 
that  little  bay;  they  show  you  still  some  mounds  of  earth 
upon  the  shore  they  call  the  Spaniards'  graves,"  said  Mark, 
as  he  stood  peering  through  the  misty  darkness  into  the 
depth  below.  "The  peasantry  had  lighted  a  fire  on  this 
rock,  and  the  vessel,  a  three-decker,  decoyed  by  the  signal, 
held  on  her  course,  in  shore,  and  was  lost.  Good 
Heavens!"  cried  he,  after  a  brief  pause,  "why  has  this 
fatality  ever  been  our  lot?  Why  have  we  welcomed  our 
foes  with  smiles,  and  our  friends  with  hatred  and  destruc- 
tion? These  same  Spaniards  were  our  brethren  and  our 
kindred,  and  the  bitter  enemies  of  our  enslavers;  and  even 
yet  we  can  perpetuate  the  memory  of  their  ruin  as  a  thing 
of  pride  and  triumph.  Are  we  forever  to  be  thus,  or  is  a 
better  day  to  dawn  upon  us  ?  " 

Herbert,  who  by  experience  knew  how  much  more  excited 
Mark  became  by  even  the  slightest  opposition,  forbore  to 
speak,   and  again  they  pursued  their  way. 

They  had  continued  for  some  time  thus,  when  Mark,  tak- 
ing Herbert's  arm,  pointed  to  a  dark  mass  which  seemed 
to  loom  straight  above  their  heads,  where,  towering  to  a 
considerable  height,   it  terminated  in  a  sharp  pinnacle. 

"Yonder  is  the  summit,  Herbert;  courage  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  more,   and  the  breach  is  won." 

The  youth  heaved  a  sigh  and  muttered,  — 

"Would  it  were  so!" 

If  Herbert  became  dispirited  and  worn  out  by  the  dark 
and  dreary  way,  where  no  sight  nor  sound  relieved  the  dull 
monotony  of  fatigue,  Mark's  spirit  seemed  to  grow  lighter 
with  every  step  he  went.  As  if  he  had  left  his  load  of  care 
with  the  nether  world,  his  light  and  bounding  movement, 
and  his  joyous  voice,  spoke  of  a  heart  which,  throwing  off 
its  weight  of  sorrow,  revelled  once  more  in  youthful 
ecstasy. 


THE   MOUNTAIN  AT   SUNRISE.  101 

"You  are  a  poet,  Herbert:  tell  me  if  you  have  faith  in 
those  instinctive  fancies  which  seem  to  shadow  forth 
events?  " 

"If  you  mean  to  ask  me  whether,  from  my  present  sen- 
sations,  I  anticipate  a  heavy  cold  or  a  fit  of  rheumatism, 
I  say,  most  certainly,"  replied  Herbert,  half  doggedly. 

Mark  smiled,  and  continued,  —  ' 

"No,  those  are  among  the  common  course  of  events. 
What  I  asked  for  was  an  explanation  of  my  own  feelings 
at  this  moment.  Why,  here  upon  this  lone  and  gloomy 
mountain,  a  secret  whispering  at  my  heart  tells  me  to  hope 
that  my  days  and  nights  of  disaster  are  nigh  over,  and  that 
the  turning  point  of  my  life  is  at  hand,  even  as  that  bold 
peak  above  us." 

"  I  must  confess,  Mark,  this  is  a  strange  time  and  place 
for  such  rose-colored  visions,"  said  Herbert,  as  he  shook 
the  rain  from  his  soaked  garments;  "m?/  imagination  cannot 
carry  me  to  such  a  lofty  tlight." 

Mark  was  too  intent  upon  his  own  thoughts  to  bestow 
much  attention  on  the  tone  and  spirit  of  Herbert's  remark, 
and  he  pressed  forward  towards  the  summit  with  every 
effort  of  his  strength.  After  a  brief  but  toilsome  exertion 
he  reached  the  top,  and  seated  himself  on  a  little  pile  of 
stones  that  marked  the  point  of  the  mountain.  The  dark- 
ness was  still  great;  faint  outlines  of  the  lesser  mountains 
beneath  could  only  be  traced  through  the  masses  of  heavy 
cloud  that  hung,  as  it  were,  suspended  above  the  earth; 
while  over  the  sea  an  unusual  blackness  was  spread.  The 
wind  blew  with  terrific  force  around  the  lofty  peak  where 
Mark  sat,  and  in  the  distant  valleys  he  could  hear  the 
sound  of  crashing  branches  as  the  storm  swept  through  the 
wood;  from  the  sea  itself,  too,  a  low  booming  noise  arose, 
as  the  caves  along  the  shore  re-echoed  to  the  swelling 
clangor  of  the  waves. 

Herbert  at  last  reached  the  spot,  but  so  exhausted  by 
the  unaccustomed  fatigue  that  he  threw  himself  down  at 
Mark's  feet,   and  with  a  wearied  sigh  exclaimed,  — 

"Thank  Heaven!  there  is  no  more  of  it." 

"Day  will  not  break  for  half  an  hour  yet,"  said  Mark, 
pointing  westward;  "the  gray  dawn  always  shows  over  the 


102  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

sea.  I  have  seen  the  whole  surface  like  gold,  befoie  the 
dull  mountains  had  one  touch  of  light." 

The  heavy  breathing  of  the  youth,  as  he  lay  with  his 
head  on  Mark's  knees,  attracted  him;  he  looked  down,  and 
perceived  that  Herbert  had  fallen  into  a  calm  and  tranquil 
sleep. 

*'Poor  fellow!  "  cried  Mark,  as  he  smoothed  the  hair 
upon  his  brow,  ''this  toil  had  been  too  much  for  him." 

Placing  himself  in  such  a  position  as  best  to  shelter  his 
brother  from  the  storm,  Mark  sat  awaiting  the  breaking 
dawn.  The  hopes  that  in  the  active  ascent  of  the  moun- 
tain were  high  in  his  heart,  already  began  to  fail ;  exertion 
had  called  them  forth,  and  now,  as  he  sat  silently  amid  the 
dreary  waste  of  darkness,  his  spirit  fell  with  every  moment. 
One  by  one  the  bright  visions  he  had  conjured  up  faded 
away,  his  head  fell  heavily  on  his  bosom,  and  thoughts 
gloomy  and  dark  as  the  dreary  morning  crowded  on  his 
brain. 

As  he  remained  thus  deep  sunk  in  sad  musings,  the  gray 
dawn  broke  over  the  sea,  and  gradually  a  pinkish  hue 
stained  the  sky  eastward.  The  rain,  which  up  to  this  time 
drifted  in  heavy  masses,  ceased  to  fall ;  and  instead  of  the 
gusty  storm,  blowing  in  fitful  blasts,  a  gentle  breeze  rolled 
the  mists  along  the  valleys,  as  if  taking  away  the  drapery 
of  Night  at  the  call  of  Morning.  At  first  the  mountain 
peaks  appeared  through  the  dense  clouds,  and  then,  by 
degrees,  their  steep  sides,  begirt  with  rock  and  fissured 
with  many  a  torrent.  At  length  the  deep  valleys  and  glens 
began  to  open  to  the  eye,  and  the  rude  cabins  of  the  peas- 
ants, marked  out  by  the  thin  blue  wreath  of  smoke  that 
rose  into  the  air  ere  it  was  scattered  by  the  fresh  breeze  of 
morning.  Over  the  sea  the  sunlight  glittered,  tipping  the 
glad  waves  that  danced  and  sported  towards  the  shore,  and 
making  the  white  foam  upon  the  breakers  look  fairer  than 
snow  itself.  Mark  looked  upon  the  scene  thus  suddenly 
changed,  and,  shaking  his  brother's  arm,  he  called  out,  — 

"Awake,  Herbert!  see  what  a  glorious  day  is  breaking. 
Look,  that  is  Sugarloaf,  piercing  the  white  cloud;  and 
yonder  is  Castletown.  See  how  the  shore  is  marked  out  in 
every  jutting  point  and  cliff.  I  can  see  the  Kenmare  River 
as  it  opens  to  the  sea." 


THE  MOUNTAIN  AT  SUNRISE.  103 

"It  is  indeed  beautiful!  "  exclaimed  Herbert,  all  fatigue 
forgotten  in  the  ecstasy  of  the  moment.  "Is  not  that 
Garran  Thual,  Mark,  that  rears  its  head  above  the  others?" 

But  Mark's  e^^es  were  turned  in  a  different  direction,  and 
he  paid  no  attention  to  the  question. 

"Yes,"  cried  Herbert,  still  gazing  intently  towards  the 
land,  "and  that  must  be  Mangerton.     Am  I  right,  Mark?" 

"What  can  that  mean?"  said  Mark,  seizing  Herbert's 
arm,  and  pointing  to  a  distant  point  across  Bantry  Bay. 
"There,  you  saw  it  then." 

"Yes,  a  bright  flash  of  flame.  See,  it  burns  steadily 
now." 

"Ay,  and  there  's  another  below  Beerhaven,  and  another 
yonder  at  the  Smuggler's  Rock." 

And  while  he  was  yet  speaking,  the  three  fires  blazed 
out,  and  continued  to  burn  brilliantly  in  the  gray  light  of 
the  morning.  The  dark  mist  that  moved  over  the  sea  gave 
way  before  the  strong  breeze,  and  the  tall  spars  of  a  large 
ship  were  seen  as  a  vessel  rounded  the  point,  and  held  on 
her  course  up  Bantry  Bay.  Even  at  the  distance  Mark's 
experienced  eye  could  detect  that  she  was  a  ship  of  war; 
her  ports,  on  which  the  sun  threw  a  passing  gleam,  bristled 
with  guns,  and  her  whole  trim  and  bearing  bespoke  a 
frigate. 

"She's  a  King's  ship,  Mark,  in  pursuit  of  some  smug- 
gler," said  Herbert;  "and  the  fires  we  have  seen  were  sig- 
nals to  the  other.  How  beautifully  she  sails  along!  and 
see,  is  not  that  another?  " 

Mark  made  no  reply,  Init  pointed  straight  out  to  sea, 
where  now  seven  sail  could  be  distinctly  reckoned,  standing 
towards  the  bay  with  all  their  canvas  set.  The  report  of 
a  cannon  turned  their  eyes  towards  the  frigate,  and  they 
perceived  that  already  she  was  abreast  of  Whitty  Island, 
where  she  was  about  to  anchor. 

"That  gun  was  fired  by  her;  and  see,  there  goes  her 
ensign.     What  does  that  mean,   Mark?" 

"It  means  Liberty,  my  boy!"  screamed  Mark,  with  a 
yell  that  sounded  like  madness.  "France  has  come  to  the 
rescue!  See,  there  they  are  —  eight  —  nine  of  them!  —  and 
the  glorious  tricolor  floating  at   every  mast!      Oh,   great 


104  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

Heaven !  in  whose  keeping  the  destinies  of  men  and  king- 
doms lie,  look  favorably  upon  our  struggle  now!  Yes,  my 
brother,  I  was  right,  —  a  brighter  hour  is  about  to  shine 
upon  our  country !  Look  there,  —  think  of  those  gallant 
fellows  that  have  left  home  and  country  to  bring  freedom 
across  the  seas,  and  say  if  you  will  be  less  warm  in  the 
cause  than  the  alien  and  the  stranger.  How  nobly  they 
come  along !     Herbert,  be  with  us,  —  be  of  us  now !  " 

''Whatever  be  our  ills  here,"  said  Herbert,  sternly,  ''I 
know  of  no  sympathy  to  bind  us  to  France;  nor  would  I 
accept  a  boon  at  such  hands,  infidel  and  blood-stained  as 
she  is." 

*'  Stop,  Herbert,  let  us  not  here,  where  we  may  meet  for 
the  last  time,  interchange  aught  that  should  darken  memory 
hereafter.     My  course  is  yonder." 

"Farewell,  then,  Mark;  I  will  not  vainly  endeavor  to 
turn  you  from  your  rash  project.  The  reasons  that  seemed 
cold  and  valueless  in  the  hour  of  tranquil  thought,  have 
few  chances  of  success  in  the  moment  of  your  seeming 
triumph." 

"  Seeming  triumph!  "  exclaimed  Mark,  as  a  slight  change 
colored  his  cheek.  "And  will  you  not  credit  what  your 
eyes  reveal  before  you?  Are  these  visions?  Was  that  loud 
shot  a  trick  of  the  imagination  ?  Oh  !  Herbert,  if  the  loyalty 
you  boast  of  have  no  better  foundation  than  these  fancies, 
be  with  your  country ;  stand  by  her  in  the  day  of  her 
peril." 

"  I  will  do  so,  Mark,  and  with  no  failing  spirit  either," 
said  Herbert,  as  he  turned  away,  sad  and  sorrow-struck. 

"You  would  not  betray  us,"  cried  Mark,  as  he  saw  his 
brother  preparing  to  descend  the  mountain. 

"Oh,  Mark,  you  should  not  have  said  this." 

And  in  a  torrent  of  tears  he  threw  himself  upon  his 
brother's  bosom.  For  some  minutes  they  remained  close 
locked  in  each  other's  arms,  and  then  Herbert,  tearing  him- 
self away,  clasped  Mark's  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  kissed  it. 
The  last  "Good-bye"  broke  from  each  lip  together,  and 
they  parted. 

Mark  remained  on  the  spot  where  his  brother  had  left  him, 
his  eyes  fixedly  directed  towards  the  bay,  where  already  a 


THE   MOUNTAIN  AT   SUNRISE.  105 

second  ship  had  arrived,  —  a  large  three-decker,  with  an 
admiral's  peuuon  flying  from  the  mast-head.  The  first 
burst  of  wild  enthusiasm  over,  he  began  to  reflect  on  what 
was  next  to  be  done.  Of  course  he  should  lose  no  time  in 
presenting  himself  to  the  officers  in  command  of  the  expedi- 
tion, and  making  known  to  them  his  name,  and  the  place  he 
occupied  in  the  confidence  of  his  countrymen.  His  great 
doubt  was,  whether  he  should  not  precede  this  act  by  meas- 
ures for  assembling  and  rallying  the  people,  who  evidently 
would  be  as  much  taken  by  surprise  as  himself  at  the  sudden 
arrival  of  the  French. 

The  embarrassment  of  the  position  was  great;  for, 
although  deeply  implicated  in  the  danger  of  the  plot,  he 
never  had  enjoyed  intimacy  or  intercourse  with  its  leaders. 
How,  then,  should  he  satisfy  the  French  that  his  position 
was  such  as  entitled  him  to  their  confidence?  The  only 
possible  escape  to  this  difficulty  was  by  marshalling  around 
him  a  considerable  body  of  the  peasantry,  ready  and  willing 
to  join  the  arms  and  follow  the  fortunes  of  the  invaders. 

"  They  cannot  long  distrust  me  with  a  force  of  three 
hundred  men  at  my  back,"  exclaimed  Mark,  aloud,  as  he 
descended  the  mountain  with  rapid  strides.  "  I  know  every 
road  through  these  valleys,  —  every  place  where  a  stand 
could  be  made,  or  an  escape  effected.  We  will  surprise  the 
party  of  soldiers  at  Mary  M'Kelly's,  and  there  there  are  arms 
enough  for  all  the  peasantry  of  the  country." 

Thus  saying,  and  repeating  to  himself  the  names  of  the 
different  farmers  whom  he  remembered  as  true  to  the  cause, 
and  on  whose  courage  and  readiness  he  depended  at  this 
moment,  he  hastened  on. 

"  Holt  at  the  cross-roads  promised  eighteen,  all  armed 
with  firelocks.  M'Sweeny  has  six  sons,  and  stout  fellows 
they  are,  every  man  of  them  read3^  Then,  there  are  the 
O'Learys ;  but  there  's  a  split  amongst  them,  —  confound 
their  petty  feuds,  this  is  no  time  to  indulge  them  ;  they 
shall  come  out,  and  they  must,  —  ah !  hand  in  hand,  too, 
though  they  have  been  enemies  this  twelvemonth.  Black 
0*Sullivan  numbers  nigh  eighty,  —  pikemen  every  one  of 
them.  Our  French  friends  may  smile  at  their  ragged  gar- 
ments, but  our  enemies  will  scarce  join  in  the  laugh.     Car- 


106  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

rignacurra  must  be  occupied,  —  it  is  the  key  of  the  glen. 
The  Lodge  we  '11  burn  to  the  ground,  — but  no,  we  must  not 
visit  the  sin  of  the  servant  on  the  master.  Young  Travers 
behaved  nobly  to  me.  There  is  a  wild  time  coming,  and 
let  us,  at  least,  begin  our  work  in  a  better  spirit,  for  blood- 
shed soon  teaches  cruelty." 

Now  muttering  these  short  and  broken  sentences,  now 
wondering  what  strength  the  French  force  might  be  —  how 
armed  —  how  disposed  for  the  enterprise  —  what  spirit  pre- 
vailed among  the  officers,  and  what  hopes  of  success  ani- 
mated the  chiefs,  —  Mark  moved  along,  eager  for  the  horn- 
to  come  when  the  green  flag  should  be  displayed,  and  the 
war-cry  of  Ireland  ring  in  her  native  valleys. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  TREACHERY. 


Leaving,  for  the  present,  Mark  O'Donoghue  to  the  duties 
he  imposed  on  himself  of  rallying  the  people  around  the 
French  standard,  we  shall  turn  to  the  old  castle  of  Carrig- 
nacurra,  where  life  seemed  to  move  on  in  the  same  unbroken 
tranquillity.  For  several  days  past,  Hemsworth,  still  weak 
from  his  recent  illness,  had  been  a  frequent  visitor,  and 
although  professing  that  the  great  object  of  his  solicitude 
was  the  safety  of  young  O'Donoghue,  he  found  time  and 
opportunity  to  suggest  to  Kate  that  a  more  tender  feeling 
influenced  him.  So  artfully  had  he  played  his  part,  and 
so  blended  were  his  attentions  with  traits  of  deference  and 
respect,  that,  however  little  she  might  be  disposed  to  en- 
courage his  addresses,  the  difficulty  of  repelling  them  with- 
out offence  was  great  indeed.  This  delicacy  on  her  part 
was  either  mistaken  by  Hemsworth,  or  taken  as  a  ground 
of  advantage.  All  his  experiences  in  life  pointed  to  the 
fact,  that  success  is  ever  attainable  by  him  who  plays  well 
his  game ;  that  the  accidents  of  fortune,  instead  of  being 
obstacles  and  interruptions,  are,  in  reality,  to  one  of  quick 
intelligence,  but  so  many  aids  and  allies.  His  illness  alone 
had  disconcerted  his  plans ;  but  now,  once  more  well,  and 
able  to  conduct  his  schemes,  he  had  no  fears  for  the  result. 
Up  to  this  moment,  everything  promised  success.  It  was 
more  than  doubtful  that  the  Traverses  would  ever  return  to 
Ireland.  Frederick  would  be  unwilling  to  visit  the  neigh- 
borhood where  his  affections  had  met  so  severe  a  shock. 
The  disturbed  state  of  the  country,  and  the  events  which 
Hemsworth  well  knew  must  soon  occur,  would  in  all  like- 
lihood deter  Sir  Marmaduke  from   any  wish  to   revisit  his 


108  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

Irish  property.  This  was  one  step  gained.  Ah-eady  he  was 
in  possession  of  a  large  portion  of  the  Glentlesk  estate,  of 
which  he  was  well  aware  the  title  was  defective,  for  he  had 
made  it  a  ground  of  considerable  abatement  in  the  purchase- 
money  to  the  O'Donoghue,  that  his  son  was  in  reality  under 
age  at  the  time  of  sale.  Mark's  fate  was,  however,  in  his 
hands,  and  he  had  little  fear  that  the  secret  was  known  to 
any  other.  Nothing,  then,  remained  incomplete  to  the  ac- 
complishment of  his  wishes,  except  his  views  regarding 
Kate.  Were  she  to  become  his  wife,  the  small  remnant 
of  the  property  that  pertained  to  them  would  fall  into  his 
hands,  and  he  become  the  lord  of  the  soil.  His  ambitions 
were  higher  than  this.  Through  the  instrumentality  of  Lanty 
Lawler,  he  had  made  himself  master  of  the  conspiracy  in 
all  its  details.  He  knew  the  names  of  the  several  chiefs, 
the  parts  assigned  them,  the  places  of  rendezvous,  their 
hopes,  their  fears,  and  their  difficulties.  He  was  aware  of 
the  views  of  France,  and  had  in  his  possession  copies  of 
several  letters  which  passed  between  members  of  the  French 
executive  and  the  leaders  of  the  United  part}'  in  Ireland. 
Far  from  communicating  this  information  to  the  Govern- 
ment, he  treasured  it  as  the  source  of  his  own  future  ele- 
vation. From  time  to  time,  it  is  true,  he  made  known  cer- 
tain facts  regarding  individuals  whom  he  either  dreaded  for 
their  power,  or  suspected  that  they  miglit  themselves  prove 
false  to  their  party  and  betray  the  plot ;  but,  save  in  these 
few  instances,  he  revealed  nothing  of  what  he  knew,  deter- 
mining, at  the  proper  moment,  to  make  this  knowledge  the 
groundwork  of  his  fortune. 

"  Twenty-four  hours  of  rebellion,"  said  he,  —  "  one  day 
and  night  of  massacre  and  bloodshed, — will  make  me  a 
peer  of  the  realm.  I  know  well  what  terror  will  pervade  the 
land  when  the  first  rumor  of  a  French  landing  gains  cur- 
renc3^  I  can  picture  to  myself  the  affrighted  looks  of  the 
Council ;  the  alarm  depicted  in  every  face  when  the  post 
brings  the  intelligence  that  a  force  is  on  its  march  towards 
the  capital ;  and  then  —  then,  when  I  can  lay  my  hand  on 
each  rebel  of  them  all,  and  say,  this  man  is  a  traitor,  and 
that  a  rebel ;  when  I  can  show  where  arms  are  collected . 
and  ammunition  stored ;    when  I  can  tell  the  plan  of  their 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  TREACHERY.        109 

operation,  their  uumbers,  their  organization,  and  their  means, 
—  I  have  but  to  name  the  price  of  my  reward." 

Such  were  the  speculations  that  occupied  the  slow  hours 
of  his  recovery,  and  such  were  the  thoughts  which  engrossed 
the  first  days  of  his  returning  health. 

The  latest  letters  he  had  seen  from  France  announced  that 
the  expedition  would  not  sail  till  January,  and  then,  in  the 
event  of  escaping  the  English  force  in  the  Channel,  would 
proceed  to  land  fifteen  thousand  men  on  the  banks  of  the 
Shannon.  The  causes  which  accelerated  the  sailing  of  the 
French  fleet  before  the  time  originally  determined  on  were 
unknown  to  Hemsworth,  and  on  the  very  morning  when  the 
vessels  anchored  in  Bantry  Bay,  he  was  himself  a  visitor 
beneath  the  roof  of  Carrignacurra,  where  he  had  passed  the 
preceding  night,  the  severity  of  the  weather  having  de- 
tained him  there.  He,  therefore,  knew  nothing  of  what 
had  happened,  and  was  calmly  deliberating  on  the  progress 
of  his  own  plans,  when  events  were  occurring  which  w^ere 
destined  to  disconcert  and  destroy  them. 

The  family  were  seated  at  breakfast,  and  Hemsworth, 
whose  letters  had  been  brought  over  from  the  Lodge,  was 
reading  aloud  such  portions  of  news  as  could  interest  or 
amuse  the  O'Donoghue  and  Kate,  when  he  was  informed 
that  Wylie  was  without,  and  most  anxious  to  see  him  for 
a  few  minutes.  There  was  no  communication  which,  at 
the  moment,  he  deemed  could  be  of  much  importance,  and 
he  desired  him  to  wait.  Wylie  again  requested  a  brief 
interview,  —  one  minute  would  be  enough ;  that  his  tidings 
were  of  the  deepest  consequence. 

"This  is  his  way  ever,"  said  Hemsworth,  rising  from  the 
table.  "  If  a  tenant  has  broken  down  a  neighbor's  ditch,  or 
a  heifer  is  impounded,  he  always  comes  with  this  same  press- 
ing urgency ;  "  and,  angry  at  the  interruption,  he  left  the 
room  to  hear  the  intelligence. 

"  Still  no  letter  from  Archy,  Kate,"  said  the  O'Donoghue, 
when  they  were  alone;  "once  more  the  post  is  come,  and 
nothing  for  us.  I  am  growing  more  and  more  uneasy  about 
Mark.  These  delays  will  harass  the  poor  boy,  and  drive 
him  perhaps  to  some  rash  step." 

"Mr.   Hemsworth   is   doing   everything,  however,  in  his 


110  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

power,"  said  Kate,  far  more  desirous  of  offering  consolation 
to  her  uncle  than  satisfied  in  her  own  mind  as  to  the  state 
of  matters.  ''He  is  in  constant  correspondence  with  Gov- 
ernment. The  only  difficulty  is,  they  demand  disclosures 
my  cousin  neither  can,  nor  ought  to  make.  A  pardon  is  no 
grace,  when  it  commutes  death  for  dishonor.  This  will,  I 
hope,  be  got  over  soon." 

While  she  was  yet  speaking,  the  door  softly  opened,  and 
Kerry,  with  a  noiseless  step,  slipped  in,  and,  approaching 
the  table  unseen  and  unheard,  was  beside  the  O'Donoghue's 
chair  before  he  was  perceived. 

"Whisht,  master  dear,  —  whisht.  Miss  Kate,"  said  he, 
with  a  gesture  of  warning  towards  the  door.  "There's 
great  news  without.  The  French  is  landed,  — twenty-eight 
ships  is  down  in  Bantry  Bay.  Bony  himself  is  with  them. 
I  heard  it  all,  as  Sam  Wylie  was  telling  Hemsworth ;  I  was 
inside  the  pantry  door." 

"  The  French  landed!  "  cried  the  O'Donoghue,  in  whom 
amazement  overcame  all  sensation  of  joy  or  sorrow. 

"The  French  here  in  Ireland!"  cried  Kate,  her  eyes 
sparkling  with  enthusiastic  delight;  but  before  she  could 
add  a  word,  Hemsworth  re-entered.  Whether  his  efforts 
to  seem  calm  and  unmoved  were  in  reality  well  devised, 
or  that,  as  is  more  probable,  Hemsworth's  own  preoccupa- 
tion prevented  his  strict  observance  of  the  others,  he  never 
remarked  that  the  O'Donoghue  and  his  niece  exhibited  any 
traits  of  anxiety  or  impatience  ;  while  Kerry,  after  perform- 
ing a  variety  of  very  unnecessary  acts  and  attentions  about 
the  table,  at  last  left  the  room,  with  a  sigh  over  his  in- 
ability to  protract  his  departure. 

Hemsworth's  eye  wandered  to  the  door  to  see  if  it  was 
closed  before  he  spoke ;  and  then  leaning  forward,  said,  in 
a  low,  cautious  voice,  — 

"  I  have  just  heard  some  news  that  may  prove  very  im- 
portant. A  number  of  the  people  have  assembled  in  arms 
in  the  glen,  your  son  Mark  at  their  head.  What  their 
precise  intentions,  or  whither  they  are  about  to  direct 
their  steps,  I  know  not ;  but  I  see  clearly  that  young  Mr. 
O'Donoghue  will  fatally  compromise  himself  if  this  rash 
step  become  known.     The  Government  never  could  forgive 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  TREACHERY.  IH 

such  a  proceeding  on  his  part.  I  need  not  tell  you  that 
this  daring  must  be  a  mere  hopeless  exploit;  such  enter- 
prises have  but  one  termination,  —  the  scaffold." 

The  old  man  and  his  niece  exchanged  glances,  —  vapid, 
but  full  of  intelligence.  Each  seemed  to  ask  the  other, 
'*Is  this  man  false?  Is  he  suppressing  a  part  of  the  truth 
at  this  moment,  or  is  this  all  invention  ?  Why  has  he  not 
spoken  of  the  great  event,  —  the  arrival  of  the  French  ?  " 

Kate  was  the  first  to  venture  to  sound  him,  as  she 
asked,  — 

"And  is  the  rising  some  mere  sudden  ebullition  of  dis- 
content, or  have  they  concerted  any  movement  with  others 
at  a  distance?  " 

"  A  mere  isolated  outbreak,  —  the  rash  folly  of  harebrained 
boys,  without  plan  or  project." 

"What  is  to  become  of  poor  Mark?"  cried  the  O'Don- 
oghue,  all  suspicions  of  treachery  forgotten  in  the  anxiety 
of  his  son's  safety. 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,"  said  Hemsworth,  hastily. 
"  The  movement  must  be  put  down  at  once.  As  a  magis- 
trate, and  in  the  full  confidence  of  the  Government,  I  have 
no  second  course  open  to  me,  and  therefore  I  have  ordered 
up  the  military  from  Macroom.  There  are  four  troops  of 
cavalry  and  an  infantry  regiment  there.  With  them  in 
front,  this  ill-disciplined  rabble  will  never  dare  to  advance, 
but  soon  scatter  and  disband  themselves  in  the  mountains, 
—  the  leaders  only  will  incur  any  danger.  But,  as  regards 
your  son,  you  have  only  to  write  a  few  lines  to  him,  and 
despatch  them  by  some  trusty  messenger,  saying  that  you 
are  aware  of  what  has  happened,  —  know  everything,  —  and, 
without  wishing  to  interfere  or  thwart  his  designs,  j^ou 
desire  to  see  and  speak  with  him,  here,  at  once.  This  he 
will  not  refuse.  Once  here  safe,  and  within  these  walls, 
I  '11  hasten  the  pursuit  of  these  foolish  country  fellows ; 
and  even  should  any  of  them  be  taken,  your  son  will  not 
be  of  the  number.  You  must  take  care,  however,  when 
he  is  here,  that  he  does  not  leave  this  until  I  return." 

"  And  are  these  brave  fellows,  misguided  though  they  be, 
to  be  kidnapped  thus,  and  by  our  contrivance,  too?  "  said 
Kate,  on  whom,  for  the  first  time,  a  dread  of  Hemsworth's 
duplicity  was  fast  breaking. 


112  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

''  I  did  not  know  Miss  O'Donoghue's  interest  took  so  wide 
a  range,  or  that  her  sympathies  were  so  catholic,"  said 
Ilemsworth,  with  a  smile  of  double  meaning.  ''  If  she 
would  save  her  cousin,  however,  she  must  adopt  my  plan,  or 
at  least  suggest  a  better  one." 

"  Yes,  yes,  Kate,  Mr.  Hemsworth  is  right,"  said  the 
O'Donoghue,  in  whom  selfishness  was  always  predominant ; 
"  we  must  contrive  to  get  Mark  here,  and  to  keep  him  when 
we  have  him." 

"And  you  may  rely  upon  it.  Miss  O'Donoghue,"  said 
Hemsworth,  in  a  whisper,  "  that  my  pursuit  of  the  others 
will  not  boast  of  any  excessive  zeal  in  the  cause  of  loyalty. 
Such  fellows  may  be  suffered  to  escape,  and  neither  King 
nor  Constitution  have  any  ground  of  complaint  for  it." 

Kate  smiled  gratefully  in  return,  and  felt  angry  with 
herself  for  even  a  momentary  injustice  to  the  honorable 
nature  of  Hemsworth's  motives. 

"  Mr.  Hemsworth's  horse  is  at  the  door,"  said  Kerry,  at 
the  same  moment. 

"It  is,  then,  agreed  upon  that  you  will  write  this  letter 
at  once,"  said  Hemsworth,  leaning  over  the  old  man's  chair, 
as  he  whispered  the  words  into  his  ear. 

The  O'Donoghue  nodded  an  assent. 

"Without  knowing  that,"  continued  Hemsworth,  "I 
should  be  uncertain  how  to  proceed.  I  must  not  let  the 
Government  suppose  me  either  ignorant  or  lukewarm.  Lose 
no  time,  therefore ;  send  off  the  letter,  and  leave  the  rest  to 
me." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  ride,  I  hope,"  said  Kate,  as  she 
looked  out  of  the  window  down  the  glen,  where  already 
the  rain  was  falling  in  torrents,  and  the  wind  blowing  a 
perfect  hurricane.  Hemsworth  muttered  a  few  words  in  a 
low  tone,  at  which  Kate  colored  and  walked  away. 

"Nay,  Miss  O'Donoghue,"  said  he,  still  whispering,  "I 
am  not  one  of  those  who  make  a  bargain  for  esteem ;  if  I 
cannot  win  regard,  I  will  never  buy  it." 

There  was  a  sadness  m  his  words,  and  an  air  of  self- 
respect  about  him,  as  he  spoke  them,  that  touched  Kate 
far  more  than  ever  she  had  been  before  by  any  expression 
of   his   feelings.     When  she  saw   him  leave  the  room,  her 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  TREACHERY.        113 

first  thought  was,  "It  is  downright  meanness  to  suspect 
him." 

"Is  it  not  strange,  Kate,"  said  the  O'Donoghue,  as  he 
took  her  hand  in  his,  "  he  never  mentioned  the  French  land- 
ing to  us  ?     What  can  this  mean  ?  " 

"I  believe  I  can  understand  it,  sir,"  said  Kate,  musingly; 
for  already  she  had  settled  in  her  mind  that  while  Hems- 
worth  would  neglect  no  measures  for  the  safety  of  Carrig- 
nacurra,  he  scrupled  to  announce  tidings  which  might  over- 
whelm them  with  alarm  and  terror.  "  But  let  us  think  of 
the  letter ;  Kerry,  I  suppose,  is  the  best  person  to  send 
with  it." 

"Yes,  Kerry  can  take  it;  and  as  the  way  does  not  lead 
past  Mary's  door,  there  's  a  chance  of  his  delivering  it  with- 
out a  delay  of  three  hours  on  the  road." 

"There,  sir,  will  that  do?"  said  Kate,  as  she  handed 
him  a  paper,  on  which  hastily  a  few  lines  were  written. 

"  Perfectly,  —  nothing  better  ;  only,  my  sweet  Kate,  when 
a  note  begins  '  My  dear  son,'  it  should  scarcely  be  signed 
*  Your  own  affectionate  Kate  O'Donoghue.' " 

Kate  blushed  deeply,  as  she  tore  the  paper  in  fragments, 
and  without  a  word  reseated  herself  at  the  table. 

"  I  have  done  better  this  time,"  said  she,  as  she  folded 
the  note  and  sealed  it ;  while  the  old  man,  with  an  energy 
quite  unusual  for  him,  arose  and  rang  the  bell  for  Kerry. 

"  Did  I  ever  think  I  could  have  done  this?  "  said  Kate  to 
herself,  as  a  tear  slowly  coursed  along  her  cheek  and  fell 
on  the  letter;  "  that  I  could  dare  to  recall  him,  when  both 
honor  and  country  demand  his  services?  that  I  could  plot 
for  life,  when  all  that  makes  life  worth  having  is  in  the 
opposite  scale?" 

"  You  must  find  out  Master  Mark,  Kerry,"  said  the 
O'Donoghue,  "and  give  him  this  letter;  there's  no  time 
to  be  lost  about  it." 

"  Sorra  fear;    I'll  put  it  into  his  hand  this  day." 

"This  day!"  cried  Kate,  impatiently.  "It  must  reach 
him  within  three  hours'  time.  Awa}^  at  once  —  the  foot  of 
Hungry  Mountain  —  the  shealing  —  Bantry  Bay  —  you  can- 
not have  any  difficulty  in  finding  him  now\" 

Kerry  waited  not  for  further  bidding,  and  though  not  b^? 

VOL.  II.  —  8 


114  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

any  means  determined  to  make  any  unusual  exertion,  left 
the  room  with  such  rapidity  as  augured  well  for  the  future. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan,  whose  anxiety  for  news 
had  led  her  to  the  head  of  the  kitchen  stairs,  —  an  excursion 
which,  at  no  previous  moment  of  her  life,  had  she  been 
known  to  take,  —  "Well,  Kerry,  what's  going  on  now?" 

"Faix,  then,  I'll  tell  ye,  ma'am,"  said  he,  sighing;  "'tis 
myself  they  're  wanting  to  kill.  Here  am  I  setting  out  wid 
a  letter,  and  where  to,  do  you  think  ?  The  top  of  Hungry 
Mountain,  in  the  Bay  of  Bantry,  that's  the  address,  —  divil 
a  lie   in  it." 

"And  who  is  it  for?"  said  Mrs.  Branaghan,  who,  affect- 
ing to  bestow  a  critical  examination  on  the  document,  was 
inspecting  the  superscription  wrong  side  up. 

"  'T  is  for  blaster  Mark;  I  heard  it  all  outside  the  door; 
they  don't  want  him  to  go  with  the  boys,  now  that  the 
French  is  landed,  and  we're  going  to  have  the  country  to 
ourselves.  'T  is  a  dhroU  day  when  an  O'Donoghue  would  n't 
have  a  fight  for  his  fathers'  acres." 

"Bad  cess  to  the  weak-hearted,  wherever  they  are!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Branaghan.  "  Don't  give  him  the  letter, 
Kerry  avich ;  lie  quiet  in  the  glen  till  evening,  and  say  you 
could  n't  find  him  by  any  manner  of  means.  Do  that,  now, 
and  it  will  be  a  good  sarvice  to  your  country  this  day." 

"  I  was  just  thinking  that  same  myself,"  said  Kerry, 
whose  resolution  wanted  little  prompting;  "after  I  cross 
the  river,  I  '11  turn  into  the  Priest's  Glen,  and  never  stir 
out  till  evening." 

AVith  these  honest  intentions  regarding  his  mission,  Kerry 
set  out,  and  if  any  apology  could  be  made  for  his  breach  of 
faith,  the  storm  might  plead  for  him.  It  had  now  reached 
its  greatest  violence ;  the  wind,  blowing  in  short  and  fre- 
quent gusts,  snapped  the  large  branches  like  mere  twigs, 
^nd  covered  the  road  with  fragments  of  timber ;  the  moun- 
tain rivulets,  too,  were  swollen,  and  dashed  madl}^  down  the 
focky  cliffs  with  a  deafening  clamor,  while  the  rain,  swoop- 
ing past  in  torrents,  concealed  the  sky,  and  covered  the 
earth  with  darkness.  Muttering  in  no  favorable  spirit  over 
the  waywardness  of  that  sex,  to  whose  peculiar  interposi- 
tion he  ascribed  his  present  excursion,  Kerry  plodded  along, 


THE  PROGRESS  OF  TREACHERY.        115 

turning,  as  he  went,  a  despairing  look  at  the  barren  and 
bleak  prospect  around  him.  To  seek  for  shelter  in  the  glen 
he  knew  was  out  of  the  question,  and  so  he  at  once  deter- 
mined to  gain  the  priest's  cottage,  where  a  comfortable  turf 
fire  and  a  rasher  of  bacon  were  certain  to  welcome  him. 

Dreadful  as  the  weather  was,  Kerry  wondered  that  he 
met  no  one  on  the  road.  He  expected  to  have  seen  groups 
of  people,  and  all  the  signs  of  that  excitement  the  arrival 
of  the  French  might  be  supposed  to  call  forth ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  everything  was  desolate  as  usual,  not  a  human 
being  appeared,  nor  could  he  hear  a  signal  nor  a  sound 
that  betokened  a  gathering. 

"  I  would  n't  wonder,  now,  if  it  was  a  lie  of  Sam  Wylie's, 
and  the  French  wasn't  here  at  all,"  said  he  to  himself; 
*'  't  is  often  I  heerd  that  Hemsworth  could  have  the  rebellion 
break  out  whenever  he  liked  it,  and  sorra  bit  but  that  may 
be  it  now,  just  to  pretend  the  French  was  here,  to  get  the 
boys  out,   and  let  the  army  at  them." 

This  reflection  of  Kerry's  was  scarcely  conceived,  when  it 
was  strengthened  by  a  boy  who  was  coming  from  Glengariff 
with  a  turf  car,  and  who  told  him  that  the  ships  which  came 
in  with  the  morning's  tide  had  all  weighed  anchor,  and  sailed 
out  of  the  bay  before  twelve  o'clock,  and  that  nobody  knew 
anything  about  them,  what  they  w^ere,  and  w^hence  from. 
*'  We  thought  they  were  the  French,"  said  the  boy,  "  till  w^e 
seen  them  sailing  away ;  but  then  we  knew  it  was  n't  them, 
and  some  said  it  was  the  King's  ships  coming  in  to  guard 
Bantry." 

"  And  they  are  not  there  now  I  "  said  Kerry. 

"Not  one  of  them  ;  they  're  out  to  say,  and  out  of  sight, 
this  hour  back." 

Kerry  hesitated  for  a  second  or  two  whether  tliis  intelli- 
gence might  not  entitle  him  to  turn  homeward ;  but  a  second 
thought,  the  priest's  kitchen,  seemed  to  have  the  advantage, 
and  thither  he  bent  his  steps  accordingly. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


THE    PRIEST  S    COTTAGE. 


When  Mark  and  Herbert  separated  on  the  mountain,  each 
took  a  different  path  downward.  Mark,  bent  on  assembling 
the  people  at  once,  and  proclaiming  the  arrival  of  their 
friends,  held  his  course  towards  Glengariff  and  the  coast, 
where  the  fishermen  were,  to  a  man,  engaged  in  the  plot. 
Herbert,  uncertain  how  to  proceed,  was  yet  equally  anxious 
to  lose  no  time,  but  could  form  no  definite  resolve  what 
course  to  adopt  amid  his  difficulties.  To  give  notice  of  the 
French  landing,  to  apprise  the  magistrates  of  the  approach- 
ing outbreak,  was,  of  course,  his  duty ;  but  in  doing  this, 
might  he  not  be  the  means  of  Mark's  ruin?  While,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  conceal  his  knowledge  would  be  an  act  of  dis- 
loyalty to  his  sovereign,  a  forfeiture  of  the  principles  he  held 
dear,  and  the  source,  perhaps,  of  the  most  dreadful  evils 
to  his  country.  Where,  too,  should  he  seek  for  counsel  or 
advice?  His  father,  he  well  knew,  would  only  regard  the 
means  of  his  brother's  safety,  reckless  of  all  other  conse- 
quences ;  Kate's  opinions,  vague  and  undefined  as  they  were, 
would  be  in  direct  opposition  to  his  own  ;  Hemsworth  he 
dared  not  confide  in.  What,  then,  remained?  There  was 
but  one  for  miles  round  in  w^hose  judgment  and  honor 
together  he  had  trust;  but  from  him  latterly  he  had  kept 
studiously  aloof.  This  was  his  old  tutor.  Father  Rourke. 
Unwilling  to  inflict  pain  upon  the  old  man,  and  still  unable 
to  reconcile  himself  to  anything  like  duplicity  in  the  matter, 
Herbert  had  avoided  the  occasion  of  meeting  him,  and  of 
avowing  that  change  in  his  religious  belief  which,  although 
secretly  working  for  manj^  a  year,  had  only  reached  its 
accomplishment  when  absent  from  home.  He  was  aware 
how  such  a  disclosure  would  aflSict   his   old  friend,  —  how 


THE  PRIEST'S   COTTAGE.  117 

impossible  would  be  the  effort  to  persuade  him  that  such  a 
change  had  its  origin  in  conviction,  and  not  in  schemes  of 
worldly  ambition ;  and  to  save  himself  the  indignit}'  of  de- 
fence from  such  an  accusation,  and  the  pain  of  an  interview, 
where  the  matter  should  be  discussed,  he  had  preferred  leav- 
ing to  time  and  accident  the  disclosure,  which  from  his  own 
lips  would  have  been  a  painful  sacrifice  to  both  parties. 
These  considerations,  important  enough  as  they  regarded  his 
own  happiness,  had  little  weight  with  him  now.  The  oraver 
questions  had  swallowed  up  all  others,  —  the  safety  of  the 
country ;  his  brother's  fate.  It  was  true  the  priest's  sym- 
pathies would  be  exclusively  with  one  party ;  he  would  not 
view  with  Herbert's  eye  the  coming  struggle ;  but  still, 
might  he  not  regard  with  him  the  results  ?  Might  he  not, 
and  with  prescience  stronger  from  his  age,  anticipate  the 
dreadful  miseries  of  a  land  devastated  by  civil  war?  Was  it 
not  possible  that  he  might  judge  unfavorably  of  success, 
and  prefer  to  endure  what  he  regarded  as  evils  rather  than 
incur  the  horrors  of  a  rebellion,  and  the  re-enactment  of 
penalties  it  would  call  down? 

The  hopes  such  calculations  suggested  were  higher,  be- 
cause Mark  had  himself  often  avowed  that  the  French 
would  only  consent  to  the  enterprise  on  the  strict  under- 
standing of  being  seconded  by  the  almost  unanimous  voice 
of  the  nation.  Their  expression  was,  "We  are  ready  and 
willing  to  meet  England  in  arms,  provided  not  one  Irish- 
man be  in  the  ranks."  Should  Father  Rourke,  then,  either 
from  motives  of  policy  or  prudence,  think  unfavorably  of 
the  scheme,  his  influence,  unbounded  over  the  people,  would 
throw  a  damper  on  the  rising,  and  either  deter  the  French 
from  any  forward  movement,  or  at  least  delay  it,  and 
afford  time  for  the  Government  to  take  measures  of  defence. 
This  alone  might  have  its  effect  on  Mark,  and  perhaps  be 
the  means  of  saving  him. 

Whether  because  he  caught  at  this  one  chance  of  succor, 
when  all  around  seemed  hopeless,  or  that  the  mind  fertilizes 
the  fields  of  its  owe  discovery,  Herbert  grew  more  confident 
each  moment  that  this  plan  would  prove  successful,  and 
turned  with  an  eager  heart  towards  the  valley  where  the 
priest  lived.     In  his  eagerness  to  press  forward,  however, 


118  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

he  diverged  from  the  path,  and  at  last  reached  a  part  of  the 
mountaiu  where  a  tremendous  precipice  intervened,  and 
stopped  all  farther  progress.  The  storm,  increasing  every 
minute,  made  the  way  slow  and  perilous,  for  around  the 
different  peaks  the  wind  swept  with  a  force  that  carried  all 
before  it.  Vexed  at  his  mistake,  he  resolved,  if  possible, 
to  discover  some  new  way  down  the  mountain  ;  but,  in  the 
endeavor,  he  only  wandered  still  farther  from  his  course, 
and  finally  found  himself  in  front  of  the  sea  once  more. 

The  heavy  rain  and  the  dense  drift  shut  out  for  some  min- 
utes the  view ;  but  when,  at  last,  he  saw  the  bay,  what  was 
his  surprise  to  perceive  that  the  French  fleet  was  no  longer 
there.  He  turned  his  eyes  on  every  side,  but  the  storm- 
lashed  water  bore  no  vessel  on  its  surface,  and,  save  some 
fishing  craft  at  anchor  in  the  little  nooks  and  bays  of  the 
coast,  not  a  mast  could  be  seen. 

Scarcely  able  to  credit  the  evidence  of  his  senses,  he 
knelt  down  on  the  cliff,  and  bent  his  gaze  steadily  on  the 
bay ;  and  when,  at  length,  reassured  and  certain  that  no 
deception  existed,  he  began  to  doubt  whether  the  whole 
bad  not  been  unreal,  and  that  the  excitement  of  his  intei 
view  with  Mark  had  conjured  the  images  his  wishes  sug- 
gested. The  faint  flickering  embers  of  an  almost  extinguished 
fire  on  the  Smuggler's  Rock  decided  the  question,  and  he 
knew  at  once  that  all  had  actually  happened. 

He  did  not  wait  long  to  speculate  on  the  reasons  of  this 
sudden  flight,  —  enough  for  him  that  the  most  pressing 
danger  was  past,  and  time  afforded  to  rescue  Mark  from 
peril ;  and,  without  a  thought  upon  that  armament  whose 
menace  had  already  filled  him  with  apprehension,  he  sped 
down  the  mountain  in  reckless  haste,  and  never  halted 
till  he  reached  the  glen  beneath.  The  violence  of  the 
storm,  the  beating  rain,  seemed  to  excite  him  to  higher 
efforts  of  strength  and  endurance,  and  his  courage  ap- 
peared to  rise  as  difficulties  thickened  around  him.  It 
was  late  in  the  day,  however,  before  he  came  in  sight  of 
the  priest's  cottage,  and  where,  as  the  gloom  was  falling, 
a  twinkling  light  now  shone. 

It  was  with  a  last  effort  of  strength,  almost  exhausted 
by  fatigue  and  hunger,  that  Herbert  gained  the  door;  this 


THE   PRIEST'S   COTTAGE.  119 

lay,  as  usual,  wide  open,  and  entering,  he  fell  overcome 
upon  a  seat.  The  energy  that  had  sustained  him  hitherto 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  given  way,  and  he  lay  back 
scarcely  conscious  and  unable  to  stir.  The  confusion  of 
sense,  so  general  after  severe  fatigue,  prevented  him  for 
some  time  from  hearing  voices  in  the  little  parlor  beside  him  ; 
but,  after  a  brief  space,  he  became  aware  of  this  vicinity, 
when  suddenly  the  well-known  accents  of  Mark  struck  upon 
his  ear.  He  was  speaking  louder  than  was  his  wont,  and 
evidently  with  an  effort  to  control  his  rising  temper,  while 
the  priest,  in  a  low,  calm  voice,  seemed  endeavoring  to  dis- 
suade and  turn  him  from  some  purpose. 

A  brief  silence  ensued,  during  which  Mark  paced  the 
room  with  slow  and  heavy  steps ;  then,  ceasing  suddenly, 
he  said,  — 

''  Why  was  it,  then,  that  we  never  heard  of  these  scruples 
before,  sir?  —  why  were  we  not  told  that  unbelieving  France 
was  no  fitting  ally  for  saintly  Ireland?  But  why  do  I  ask? 
Had  the  whole  fleet  arrived  in  safety,  —  were  there  not 
thirteen  missing  vessels,  —  we  should  hear  less  of  such 
Christian  doubts." 

''  You  are  unjust,  Mark,"  said  the  priest,  calmly.  "  You 
know  me  too  well  and  too  long  to  put  any  faith  in  your 
reproaches.  I  refuse  to  address  the  people,  because  I  would 
not  see  them  fall,  or  even  conquer,  in  an  unjust  cause.  Raise 
the  banner  of  the  Church  —  " 

"  The  banner  of  the  Church !  "  said  Mark,  with  a  mocking 
laugh. 

'^  What  does  he  say?  "  whispered  a  third  voice,  in  French, 
as  a  new  speaker  mingled  in  the  dialogue. 

"He  talks  of  the  banner  of  the  Church  I  "  said  Mark, 
scoffingly. 

""  Oiti,  parhlpAt^  if  he  likes  it."  replied  the  Frenchman, 
laughingly ;  "it  smacks  somewhat  of  the  Middle  Ages.  But 
the  old  proverb  is  right,  'A  bad  etiquette  never  spoiled  good 
wine.' " 

"Is  it  then  in  full  canonicals,  and  with  the  smoke  of 
censers,  we  are  to  march  against  the  Saxon  ? "  said  Mark, 
with  a  taunting  sneer. 

"  Hear  me  out,  Mark,"  interrupted  the  priest.     "  I  did  n't 


120  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

say  that  we  were  yet  prepared  even  for  this ;  there  is  much 
to  be  done,  —  far  more,  indeed,  than  you  wot  of.  Every 
expedition  insufficiently  planned  and  badly  supported  must 
be  a  failure;  every  failure  retards  the  accomplishment  of 
our  hopes  ;  such  must  this  enterprise  be,  if  now  —  " 

"Now,  or  never!"  interposed  Mark,  as  he  struck  the 
table  violently  with  his  clinched  hand;  "  now,  or  never,  — 
for  me,  at  least.  You  have  shown  me  to  these  Frenchmen 
as  a  fool,  or  worse,  —  one  with  influence,  and  yet  without  a 
man  to  back  me ;  with  courage,  and  you  tell  me  to  desert 
them ;  with  the  confidence  of  my  countrymen,  and  I  come 
alone,  unaccompanied,  unaccredited,  to  tell  my  own  tale 
amongst  them.  What  other  indignities  have  you  in  store 
for  me,  or  in  what  other  light  am  I  next  to  figure?  But  for 
that,  and  perhaps  you  would  dare  to  go  farther,  and  say  I 
am  not  an  O'Donoghue;"  and  in  his  passion  Mark  tore 
open  a  pocket-book,  and  held  before  the  old  man's  eyes  the 
certificate  of  his  baptism,  written  in  the  priest's  hand. 
"  Yes,  you  have  forced  me  to  speak  of  what  I  ever  meant 
to  have  buried  in  my  own  heart.  There  it  is,  read  it,  and 
bethink  you  how  it  becomes  him  who  helped  to  rob  me  of 
my  inheritance  to  despoil  me  of  my  honor  also." 

"  You  must  unsay  these  words,  sir,"  said  the  priest,  in 
an  accent  as  stern  and  commanding  as  Mark's  own.  "  I 
was  never  a  party  to  any  fraud,  nor  was  I  in  this  country 
when  your  father  sold  his  estates." 

"I  care  not  how  it  happened,"  cried  Mark,  passionately. 
"  When  my  own  father  could  do  this  thing,  it  matters  little 
to  me  who  were  his  accomplices ;  "  and  he  tore  the  paper  in 
fragments,  and  scattered  them  over  the  floor.  **  Another 
and  a  very  different  cause  brought  me  here.  The  French 
fleet  has  arrived." 

The  priest  here  muttered  something  in  a  low  tone,  to  which 
Mark  quietly  replied,  — 

"  And  if  they  have,  it  is  because  their  anchors  were  drag- 
ging; you  would  not  have  the  vessels  go  ashore  on  the 
rocks :  the  next  tide  they  '11  stand  up  the  bay  again.  The 
people  that  should  have  been  ready  to  welcome  them  hold 
back.  The  whole  country  round  is  become  suddenly  craven  ; 
of  the  hundreds  that  rallied  round  me  a  month  since,  seven- 


THE   PRIEST'S   COTTAGE.  121 

teen  appeared  this  morning,  and  they  were  wretches  more 
eager  for  pillage  than  the  field  of  honorable  warfare.  It  is 
come,  then,  to  this  :  you  either  come  at  once  to  harangue  the 
people  and  recall  them  to  their  sworn  allegiance,  or  the  expe- 
dition goes  on  without  you,  —  go  on  it  shall." 

Here  he  turned  sharply  round,  and  said  a  few  words  in 
French,  to  which  the  person  addressed  replied,  — 

"Certainly;  the  French  Eepublic  does  not  send  a  force 
like  this  for  the  benefit  of  a  sea  voyage." 

"  Desert  the  cause,  then,"  continued  Mark,  in  a  tone  of 
denunciation,  "  desert  us,  and,  by  G — d,  your  fate  will  be 
worse  than  that  of  our  more  open  enemies.  To-night  the 
force  will  land  ;  to-morrow  we  march  all  day, —  ay,  and  all 
night,  too :  the  blazing  chapels  shall  light  the  way !  " 

"Take  care,  rash  boy,  take  care;  the  vengeance  of  out- 
raged Heaven  is  more  terrible  than  you  think  of.  What- 
ever be  the  crime  and  guilt  of  others,  remember  that  you 
are  an  Irishman  ;  that  what  the  alien  may  do  in  recklessness, 
is  sacrilege  in  him  who  is  the  son  of  the  soil." 

"  Save  me,  then,  from  this  guilt,  — save  me  from  myself," 
cried  Mark,  in  an  accent  of  tender  emotion.  "  I  cannot 
desert  this  cause,  and  oh !  do  not  make  it  one  of  dishonor 
to  me." 

The  old  man  seemed  overcome  by  this  sudden  appeal  to 
his  affections,  and  made  no  reply,  and  the  deep  breathing 
of  Mark,  as  his  chest  heaved  in  strong  emotion,  was  the 
only  sound  in  the  stillness.  Herbert,  who  had  hitherto 
listened  with  that  vague  half  consciousness  of  reality  ex- 
cessive fatigue  inflicts,  became  suddenly  aware  that  the 
eventful  moment  was  come,  when,  should  the  priest  falter 
or  hesitate,  Mark  might  succeed  in  his  request,  and  all 
hope  of  rescuing  him  be  lost  forever.  With  the  energy  of 
a  desperate  resolve  he  sprang  forward,  and  entered  the 
room  just  as  the  priest  was  about  to  reply. 

"  No,  father,  no,"  cried  he,  wildly ;  "be  firm,  be  resolute  ; 
if  this  unhappy  land  is  to  be  the  scene  of  bloodshed,  let  not 
her  sons  be  found  in  opposing  ranks." 

"This  from  you,  Herbert!  "  said  Mark,  reproachfully,  as 
he  fixed  a  cold,  stern  gaze  upon  his  brother. 

"  And  why  not  from  him?  "  said  the  priest,  hastily.     "  Is 


122  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

he  not  an  Irishman  in  heart  and  spirit?  Is  not  the  land  as 
dear  to  him  as  to  us? " 

"I  give  you  joy  upon  the  alliance,  father,"  said  Mark, 
with  a  scornful  laugh.     "  Herbert  is  a  Protestant." 

"  What !  — did  I  hear  aright?  "  said  the  old  man,  as,  with 
a  face  pale  as  death,  he  tottered  forwards,  and  caught  the 
youth  by  either  arm.  "Is  this  true,  Herbert?  Tell  me, 
boy,  this  instant,  that  it  is  not  so." 

' '  It  is  true,  sir,  most  true ;  and  if  I  have  hitherto  spared 
you  the  pain  it  might  occasion  you,  believe  me  it  was  not 
from  any  shame  the  avowal  might  cost  ??ie." 

The  priest  staggered  back,  and  fell  heavily  into  a  chair ; 
a  livid  hue  spread  itself  over  his  features,  and  his  eyes  grew 
glassy  and  lustreless. 

"  We  may  well  be  wretched  and  miserable,"  exclaimed 
he,  with  a  faint  sigh.  "When  false  to  Heaven,  who  is  to 
wonder  that  we  are  traitors  to  each  other?" 

The  French  officer  —  for  such  he  was  —  muttered  some 
words  into  Mark's  ear,  who  replied,  — 

"  I  cannot  blame  you  for  feeling  impatient.  This  is  no 
time  for  fooling.  Now  for  the  glen.  Farewell,  father. 
Herbert,  we  '11  meet  again  soon ;  "  and,  without  waiting  to 
hear  more,  he  hastened  from  the  room  with  his  companion. 

Herbert  stood  for  a  second  or  two  undecided.  He  wished 
to  say  something,  yet  knew  not  what,  or  how.  At  last,  ap- 
proaching the  old  man's  chair,  he  said,  — 

"There  is  yet  time  to  avert  the  danger.  The  people  are 
irresolute,  —  many  actually  averse  to  the  rising.  My  brother 
will  fall  by  his  rashness." 

"  Better  to  do  so  than  survive  in  dishonor,"  said  the 
priest,  snatching  rudely  away  his  hand  from  Herbert's 
grasp.  "Leave  me,  young  man, — go;  this  is  a  poor 
and  an  humble  roof,  but  never  till  now  has  it  sheltered 
the  apostate." 

"I  never  thought  I  should  hear  these  words  here,"  said 
Herbert,  mildly,  "  but  I  cannot  part  with  you  in  anger." 

"There  was  a  time  when  you  never  left  me  without  my 
blessing,  Herbert,"  said  the  priest,  his  eyes  swimming  in 
tears  as  he  spoke ;   "  kneel  now,  my  chikl." 

Herbert  knelt  at  the  priest's  feet,  when,  placing  his  hand 


THE   PRIEST'S   COTTAGE.  123 

on  the  young  man's  head,  he  muttered  a  fervent  prayer  over 
him,  saying,  as  he  concluded,  — 

'•  And  may  He  who  knows  all  hearts,  direct  and  guide 
yours,  aud  briug  you  back  from  your  wanderings,  if  you 
have  strayed  from  truth." 

He  kissed  the  young  man's  forehead,  and  then,  covering 
his  eyes  with  his  hands,  sat  lost  in  his  own  sorrowful 
thoughts. 

At  this  moment  Herbert  heard  his  name  whispered  by 
a  voice  without :  he  stole  silently  from  the  room,  and,  on 
reaching  the  little  porch,  found  Kerry  O'Leary,  who,  wet 
through  and  wearied,  had  reached  the  cottage,  after  several 
hours'  endeavor  to  cross  the  watercourses,  swollen  into 
torrents  by  the  rain. 

"A  letter  from  Carrignacurra,  sir,"  said  Kerry;  for, 
heartily  sick  of  his  excursion,  he  adopted  the  expedient 
of  pretending  to  mistake  to  which  brother  the  letter  was  ad- 
dressed, and  thus  at  once  terminate  his  unpleasant  mission. 

The  note  began,  "  My  dear  son,"  and,  without  the  men- 
tion of  a  name,  simply  entreated  his  immediate  return  home. 
Thither  Herbert  felt  both  duty  and  inclination  called  him, 
and,  without  a  moment's  delay,  left  the  cottage,  and,  accom- 
panied by  Kerry,  set  out  for  Carrignacurra. 

The  night  was  dark  and  starless  as  they  plodded  onward, 
and  as  the  rain  ceased,  the  wind  grew  stronger,  while  for 
miles  inland  the  roaring  of  the  sea  could  be  heard  like  deep, 
continuous  thunder.  Herbert,  too  much  occupied  with  his 
own  thoughts,  seldom  spoke,  nor  did  Kerry,  exhausted  as  he 
felt  himself,  often  break  silence  as  they  went.  As  they 
drew  near  the  castle,  however,  a  figure  crossed  the  road, 
and,  advancing  towards  them,   said,  — 

''  Good  night." 

"Who  could  that  be,  Kerry?"  said  Herbert,  as  the 
stranger  passed  on. 

."  I  know  the  voice  well,"  said  Kerry,  '*  though  he  thought 
to  disguise  it.  That 's  Sam  W3'lie,  and  it 's  not  for  anything 
good  he  's  here." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  spoken,  when  four  fellows  sprang 
down  upon  and  seized  them. 

"  This    is  our  man,"  said  one  of    the  party,   as  he  held 


124  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

Herbert  by  the  collar,  with  a  grasp  there  was  no  resisting; 
''but  secure  the  other  also." 

Herbert's  resistance  was  vain,  although  spiritedly  made, 
and,  stifling  his  cries  for  aid,  they  carried  him  along  for 
some  little  distance  to  a  spot  where  a  chaise  was  standing 
with  four  mounted  dragoons  on  either  side.  Into  this  he 
was  forced,  and,  seated  between  two  men  in  plain  clothes, 
the  word  was  given  to  start. 

"You  know  your  orders  if  a  rescue  be  attempted,"  said  a 
voice  Herbert  at  once  knew  to  be  Hemsworth's. 

The  answer  was  lost  in  the  noise  of  the  wheels ;  for 
already  the  horses  were  away  at  the  top  of  their  speed, 
giving  the  escort  all  they  could  do  to  keep  up  beside 
them. 


CHAPTER  XLVn. 

THE     DAY     OF     RECKONING. 

Never  had  the  O'Donoghue  and  Kate  passed  a  day  of  more 
painful  anxiety,  walking  from  window  to  window,  whenever 
a  view  of  the  glen  might  be  obtained,  or  listening  to  catch 
among  the  sounds  of  the  storm  for  something  that  should 
announce  Mark's  return ;  their  fears  increased  as  the  hours 
stole  by,  and  yet  no  sign  of  his  coming  appeared. 

The  old  castle  shook  to  its  very  foundations  as  the  terrific 
gale  tore  along  the  glen,  and  the  occasional  crash  of  some 
old  fragment  of  masonry  would  be  heard  high  above  the 
roaring  wind, — while  in  the  road  beneath  were  scattered 
branches  of  trees,  slates,  and  tiles,  all  evidencing  the  violence 
of  the  hurricane.  Under  shelter  of  the  great  rock  a  shivering 
flock  of  mountain  sheep  were  gathered,  with  here  and  there 
amidst  them  a  heifer  or  a  wild  pony,  all  differences  of  habit 
merged  in  the  common  instinct  of  safety.  Within  doors 
everything  looked  sad  and  gloomy;  the  kitchen,  where 
several  country  people,  returning  from  the  market,  had 
assembled,  waiting  in  the  vain  hope  of  a  favorable  moment 
to  proceed  homeward,  did  not  present  any  of  its  ordinary 
signs  of  gayety.  There  was  no  pleasant  sound  of  happy 
voices ;  no  laughter,  no  indulgence  in  the  hundred  little 
narratives  of  personal  adventure  by  which  the  peasant  can 
beguile  the  weary  time.  They  all  sat  around  the  turf  fire, 
either  silent,  or  conversing  in  low,  cautious  whispers,  while 
Mrs.  Branaghan  herself  smoked  her  pipe  in  a  state  of  moody 
dignity  that  added  its  shade  of  awe  to  the  solemnity  of  the 
scene. 

It  was  a  strange  feature  of  the  converse,  nor  would  it 
be  worth  mentioning  here,  save  as  typifying  the  wonderful 


126  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

caution  and  reserve  of  the  people  in  times  of  difficulty,  but 
no  one  spoke  of  the  "rising,"  nor  did  any  allude,  except 
distantly,  to  the  important  military  preparations  going  for- 
ward at  Macroom.  The  fear  of  treachery  was  at  the 
moment  universal ;  the  dread  that  informers  were  scattered 
widely  through  the  land  prevailed  everywhere,  and  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  stranger,  or  of  a  man  from  a  distant  part 
of  the  country,  was  always  enough  to  silence  all  free  and 
confidential  intercourse.  So  it  was  now,  —  none  spoke  of 
anything  but  the  dreadful  storm  ;  the  injury  it  might  do  the 
countr}^ ;  how  the  floods  would  carry  awaj^  a  bridge  here, 
or  a  mill  there ;  what  roads  would  be  impassable ;  what 
rivers  would  no  longer  be  fordable ;  some  had  not  yet 
drawn  home  their  turf  from  the  bog,  and  were  now  in  despair 
of  ever  reaching  it ;  another  had  left  his  hay  in  a  low 
callow,  and  never  expected  to  see  it  again ;  while  a  few, 
whose  speculations  took  a  wider  field,  ventured  to  expatiate 
on  the  terrible  consequences  of  the  gale  at  sea,  —  a  topic 
which,  when  suggested,  led  to  many  a  sorrowful  tale  of  ship- 
wreck on  the  coast. 

It  was  while  they  were  thus,  in  low  and  muttering  voices, 
talking  over  these  sad  themes,  that  Kate,  unable  any  longer 
to  endure  the  suspense  of  silent  watching,  descended  the 
stairs  and  entered  the  kitchen,  to  try  and  learn  there  some 
tidings  of  events.  The  people  stood  up  respectfully  as  she 
came  forward,  and  while  each  made  his  or  her  humble 
obeisance,  a  muttered  sound  ran  through  them,  in  Irish,  of 
wonder  and  astonishment  at  her  grace  and  beaut}^ ;  for, 
whatever  be  the  privations  of  the  Irish  peasant,  however 
poor  and  humble  his  lot  in  life,  two  faculties  pertain  to  him 
like  instincts,  —  a  relish  for  drollery,  and  an  admiration  for 
beauty ;  these  are  claims  that  ever  find  acknoM'ledgment 
from  him,  and,  in  his  enjoyment  of  either,  he  can  forget 
himself  and  all  the  miseries  of  his  condition.  The  men 
gazed  on  her  as  something  more  than  mortal ;  the  character 
of  her  features,  heightened  by  costume  strange  to  their  eyes, 
seemed  to  astonish  almost  as  much  as  it  captivated  them, — 
while  the  women,  with  more  critical  discernment,  examined 
her  more  composedl}^  but  perhaps  with  not  less  admiration  ; 
Mrs.  Branaghan,  at  the  same  time,  throwing  a  proud  glance 


THE   DAY   OF   RECKONING.  127 

around,  as  though  to  say,  "You  didn't  think  to  see  the 
likes  of  that  in  these  parts." 

Kate  happened  on  this  occasion  to  look  more  than  usually 
handsome.  With  a  coquetry  it  is  not  necessary  to  explain, 
she  had  dressed  herself  most  becomingly,  and  in  that  style 
which  distinctly  marks  a  Frenchwoman.  The  only  time  in 
his  life  Mark  had  ever  remarked  her  costume  was  when  she 
wore  this  dress,  and  she  had  not  forgotten  the  criticism. 

"  I  did  n't  mean  to  disturb  you,"  said  Kate,  with  her  slightly 
foreign  accent;  "pray  sit  down  again.  Well,  then,  I  must 
leave  you,  if  you  won't.  Every  one  lets  me  have  my  own 
way,  —  is  it  not  true,  Mrs.  Branaghan  ?  " 

Mrs.  Branaghan's  reply  was  quite  lost  in  the  general  chorus 
of  the  others,  as  she  said,  — 

"And  why  wouldn't  you,  God  bless  you  for  a  raal 
beauty !  "  while  a  powerful-looking  fellow,  with  dark  beard 
and  whiskers,  struck  his  stick  violently  against  the  ground, 
and  cried  out  in  his  enthusiasm,  — 

"Let  me  see  the  man  that  would  say  agin  it,  —  that's 
all." 

Kate  smiled  at  the  speaker,  not  at  all  ungrateful  for  such 
rude  chivalry,  and  went  on:  "I  wanted  to  know  if  you 
have  any  news  from  the  town,  —  was  there  any  stir  among 
the  troops,  or  anything  extraordinary  going  forward  there?" 

Each  looked  at  the  other  as  if  unwilling  to  take  the  reply 
upon  himself,  when  at  last  an  old  man,  with  a  head  as  white 
as  snow,  answered,  — 

"Yes,  my  lady,  the  soldiers  is  all  under  arms  since  nine 
o'clock ;  then  came  news  that  the  French  was  in  the  bay,  and 
the  army  was  sent  for  to  Cork." 

"  No,  't  is  Limerick  I  heerd  say,"  cried  another. 

"Limerick,  indeed!  sorra  bit ; 't  is  from  Dublin  they're 
comin',  wid  cannons.  But  it's  no  use,  for  the  French  is 
sailed  off  again  as  quick  as  they  come." 

"The  French  fleet  gone! — left  the  bay!  Surely  you 
must  mistake,"  said  Kate,  eagerly. 

"  Faix,  I  won't  be  sure,  my  lady;  but  here's  Tom 
M'Carthy  seen  them  going  away,  a  little  after  twelve 
o'clock." 

The  man  thus  appealed  to   seemed  in  no  wise  satisfied 


128  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

with  the  allusion  to  him,  aucl  threw  a  quick,  distrustful 
look  around,  as  though  far  from  feeling  content  with  the 
party  before  whom  he  should  explain,  —  a  feeling  that 
increased  considerably,  as  every  eye  was  now  turned  towards 
him. 

Kate,  w^ith  a  ready  tact  that  never  failed  her,  saw  his 
difficulty,  and  approaching  close  to  where  he  stood,  said,  in 
a  voice  only  audible  by  himself,  — 

"Tell  me  what  you  saw  in  the  bay,  —  do  not  have  any 
fear  of  me.'' 

M'Carthy,  who  was  dressed  in  the  coarse  blue  jacket  of 
a  fisherman,  possessed  that  sharp  intelligence  so  often 
found  among  those  of  his  calling,  and  seemed  at  once  to 
have  his  mind  relieved  by  this  mark  of  confidence. 

"  I  was  in  the  boat,  my  lady,"  said  he,  "  that  rowed 
Master  Mark  out  to  the  French  frigate,  and  waited  for  him 
alongside  to  bring  him  back.  He  was  more  than  an  hour 
on  board  talking  with  the  officers,  sometimes  down  in  the 
cabin,  and  more  times  up  on  the  quarter-deck  where  there 
was  a  fierce-looking  man,  with  a  blue  uniform,  lying  on  a 
white  skin,  —  a  white  bear,  Master  Mark  tould  me  it  was. 
The  officer  was  wounded  in  the  leg  before  he  left  France, 
and  the  sea  voyage  made  it  bad  again  ;  but,  for  all  that,  he 
laughed  and  joked  away  like  the  others." 

"And  they  were  laughing,  then,  and  in  good  spirits?" 
said  Kate. 

"  'T  is  that  you  may  call  it.  I  never  heerd  such  pleasant 
gentlemen  before ;  and  the  sailors,  too,  were  just  the  same, 
—  sorra  bit  would  sarve  them  but  making  us  drink  a  bottle 
of  rum  apiece,  for  luck,  I  suppose.  Devil  a  one  had  a  sor- 
rowful face  on  him  but  Master  Mark,  whatever  was  the 
matter  with  him.  He  w^ould  n't  eat  anything  either,  and 
the  only  glass  of  wine  he  drank  yow  'd  think  it  was  poison, 
the  face  he  made  at  it,  —  more  by  token  he  flung  the  glass 
overboard  when  he  finished  it.  And  to  be  sure  the  French- 
men were  n't  in  fault,  —  they  treated  him  like  a  brother. 
One  would  be  shaking  hands  wid  him ;  another  wid  his  arm 
round  his  shoulders,  and  —  "  Here  Tom  blushed  and 
stammered,  and  at  last  stopped  dead  short. 

"  Well,  go  on  ;   what  were  you  going  to  say  ?  " 


THE   DAY   OF  RECKONING.  129 

"  Faix,  I'm  ashamed,  then;  but  'tis  true  enough, — 
saving  your  presence,  I  saw  two  of  them  kiss  him." 

Kate  could  not  help  laughing  at  Tom's  astonishment  at 
this  specimen  of  French  greeting ;  while  for  the  first  time, 
perhaps,  did  the  feeling  of  the  peasant  occur  to  herself,  and 
the  practice  she  had  often  witnessed  abroad  without  remark, 
became  suddenly  repugnant  to  her  delicacy. 

"And  did  Master  Mark  come  back  alone?"  asked  she, 
after  a  minute's  hesitation. 

"No,  my  lady;  there  was  a  little  dark  man  with  gould 
epaulets,  and  a  sword  on  him,  that  came  too.  I  heerd  them 
call  him  Mr.  Morris ;  but  sorra  word  of  English  or  Irish 
he  had." 

'•  And  where  did  they  land,  and  which  way  did  they  take 
afterwards  ?  " 

' '  I  put  them  ashore  at  Glengariff ,  and  they  had  horses 
there  to  take  them  up  the  country.  I  heerd  they  were  going 
first  to  Father  Rourke's,  in  the  glen." 

"And  then,  after  that?" 

"  Sorra  a  one  of  me  knows.  I  never  set  eyes  on  them 
since.  I  was  trying  to  get  a  warp  out  for  one  of  the  French 
ships,  for  the  anchors  was  dragging.  They  came  to  the 
wrong  side  of  the  island,  and  got  into  the  north  channel, 
and  that  was  the  reason  they  had  to  cut  their  cables  and 
stand  out  to  sea  till  the  gale  is  over ;  but  there 's  not  much 
chance  of  that  for  some  time." 

Kate  did  not  speak  for  several  minutes,  and  at  length 
said,  — 

"The  people,  —  tell  me  of  them.  Were  they  in  great 
numbers  along  the  coast?  Were  there  a  great  many  of  them 
with  Mr.  Mark  when  he  came  down  to  the  shore  ?  " 

"I'll  tell  you  no  lie,  my  lady;  there  was  not.  There 
was  some  boys  from  Castletown  and  down  thereabouts ; 
but  the  O'Learys  and  the  Sullivans,  the  M'Carthys  —  my 
own  people  —  and  the  Neals  was  n't  there  ;  and  sure  enough 
it  was  no  wonder  if  Master  Mark  was  angry,  when  he  looked 
about  and  saw  the  fellows  was  following  him.  '  Be  off,' 
says  he ;  '  away  wid  ye ;  't  is  for  pillage  and  robbery  the 
likes  of  ye  comes  down  here.  If  the  men  that  should  have 
heart  and  courage    in   the  cause  won't  come  forward,   I  '11 

VOL.  II.  — 9 


130  THE  O'DONOGHUE 

never  head  ruffians  like  you  to  replace  them.'  Them  's  the 
words  he  said,  and  hard  words  they  were." 

"'  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  Kate,  as  she  wiped  away  a  tear  from 
her  eye,  "none  stand  by  him,  not  one.  And  why  is  this 
the  case?"  asked  she,  eagerly;  "have  the  people  grown 
faint-hearted?      Are  there  cowards   amongst  them?" 

"There's  as  bad,"  said  M'Carthy,  in  a  low,  cautious 
whisper,  —  "there's  traitors  that  would  rather  earn  blood- 
money  than  live  honestly ;  there  's  many  a  one  among  them 
scheming  to  catch  Master  Mark  himself,  and  he's  lucky 
if  he  escapes  at  last." 

"There's  horses  now  coming  up  the  road,  and  fast 
they  're  coming  too,"  said  one  of  the  country  people ;  and 
the  quick  clattering  of  a  gallop  could  be  heard  along  the 
plashy  road. 

Kate's  heart  beat  almost  audibly,  and  she  bounded  from 
the  spot,  and  up  the  stairs.  The  noise  of  the  approaching 
horses  came  nearer,  and  at  last  stopped  before  the  door. 

"It  is  him  —  it  is  Mark,"  said  she  to  herself,  in  an  ec- 
stasy of  delight;  and  with  trembling  fingers  withdrew  the 
heavy  bolt,  and  undid  the  chain,  while,  with  an  effort  of 
strength  the  emergenc}^  alone  conferred,  she  threw  wide  the 
massive  door,  clasped  and  framed  with  iron. 

'''  Oh,  how  I  have  watched  for  you,"  exclaimed  she,  as  a 
figure,  dismounting  hastily,  advanced  towards  her,  and  the 
same  instant  the  voice  revealed  Hemsworth,  as  he  said  : 

"  If  I  could  think  this  greeting  w^ere  indeed  meant  for 
me.  Miss  O'Donoghue,  I  should  call  this  moment  the  hap- 
piest of  my  life." 

"I  thought  it  was  my  cousin,"  said  Kate,  as,  almost 
fainting,  she  fell  back  into  a  seat;  "but  you  may  have 
tidings  of  him,  —  can  you  tell  if  he  is  safe  ?  " 

"  I  expected  to  have  heard  this  intelligence  from  you," 
said  he,  as,  recovering  from  the  chagrin  of  his  disappoint- 
ment, he  resumed  his  habitual  deference  of  tone;  "has  he 
not  returned  ?  " 

"No,  we  have  not  seen  him,  nor  has  the  messenger  yet 
come  back.     Herbert  also  is  away,  and  we  are  here  alone." 

As  Hemsworth  offered  her  his  arm  to  return  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, he  endeavored  to  reassure  her  on  the  score  of 
Mark's  safety,   while  he  hinted  that  the   French,  who  that 


THE   DAY   OF   RECKONING.  131 

morning  had  entered  Bantry  Bay  with  eleven  vessels,  un- 
prepared for  the  active  reception  his  measures  had  pro- 
vided, had  set  sail  again,  either  to  await  the  remainder 
of  the  fleet,  or  perhaps  return  to  France.  "I  would  not 
wish  to  throw  blame  on  those  whose  misfortune  is  already 
heavy,  but  I  must  tell  you.  Miss  O'Donoghue,  that  every 
step  of  this  business  has  been  marked  by  duplicity  and  cow- 
ardice. I,  of  course,  need  not  say  that  in  either  of  these 
your  friends  stand  guiltless ;  but  your  cousin  has  been  a 
dupe  throughout, — the  dupe  of  everyone  who  thought  it 
worth  his  while  to  trick  and  deceive  him :  he  believed  him- 
self in  the  confidence  of  the  leaders  of  the  expedition,  — 
they  actually  never  heard  of  his  name ;  he  thought  himself 
in  a  position  of  trust  and  influence,  —  he  is  not  recognized 
by  any ;  unnoticed  by  his  own  part}^,  and  unacknowledged 
by  the  French,  his  only  notoriety  will  be  the  equivocal  one 
of  martyrdom." 

Every  word  of  this  speech,  uttered  in  a  voice  of  sad, 
regretful  meaning,  as  though  the  speaker  were  sorrowing 
over  the  mistaken  opinions  of  a  dear  friend,  cut  deeply 
into  Kate's  heart ;  she  knew  not  well,  at  the  instant,  whether 
she  should  not  better  have  faced  actual  danger  for  her 
cousin  than  have  seen  him  thus  deceived  and  played  upon. 
Hemsworth  saw  the  effect  his  words  had  created,  and 
went   on : — 

"Would  that  the  danger  rested  here,  and  that  the  fate 
of  one  rash  but  high-spirited  boy  was  all  that  hung  on  the 
crisis."  As  he  spoke,  he  threw  a  cautious  look  around  the 
roomy   apartment  to   see  that  they  were,   indeed,   alone. 

"  Great  Heaven  !  there  is  not  surely  worse  than  this  in  store 
for  us,"  cried  Kate,  in  a  voice  of  heart-rending  aflfliction. 

"There  is  far  worse.  Miss  O'Donoghue;  the  ruin  that 
threatens  is  that  of  a  whole  house,  —  a  noble  and  honored 
name.  Your  uncle  is,  unhappily,  no  stranger  to  these 
mischievous  intentions.  I  was  slow  to  put  faith  in  the 
assertion." 

"  It  is  false,  —  I  know  it  is  false,"  said  Kate,  passionately. 
"My  poor  dear  uncle,  overwhelmed  with  many  calamities, 
has  borne  up  patiently  and  nobly ;  but  of  any  participation 
in  schemes  of  danger  or  enterprise  he  is  incapable :  think 
of  his  age  —  his  infirmity. " 


132  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

*'  I  am  aware  of  both,  young  ladj^  but  I  am  also  aware 
that  for  years  past  his  pecuniary  difficulties  have  been  such 
that  he  would  hesitate  at  nothing  which  should  promise  the 
chance  of  extrication.  Many  have  imagined,  like  him,  that 
even  a  temporary  triumph  over  England  would  lead  to  some 
new  settlement  between  the  two  countries,  —  concessions  of 
one  kind  or  other,  laws  revoked  and  repealed,  and  confis- 
cations withdrawn ;  nor  were  the  expectations,  perhaps, 
altogether  unfounded.  Little  has  ever  been  accorded  to 
Ireland  as  a  grace,  —  much  has  been  obtained  by  her  by 
menace." 

"He  never  calculated  on  such  an  issue  to  the  struggle, 
sir;  depend  upon  it,  no  unworthy  prospect  of  personal 
gain  ever  induced  an  O'Donoghue  to  adopt  a  cause  like 
this.  You  have  convinced  me,  now,  that  he  is  unconnected 
with  this  plot." 

"I  sincerely  wish  my  own  convictions  could  follow  yours, 
madam;  but  it  is  an  ungrateful  office  I  have  undertaken. 
Would  to  Heaven  I  knew  how  to  discharge  it  more  fittingly. 
To  be  plain,  Miss  O'Donoghue,  the  statute  of  high  treason, 
which  will  involve  the  confiscation  of  your  uncle's  estate, 
will,  if  measures  be  not  speedily  taken,  rob  you  of  your 
fortune;  to  prevent  this  —  " 

"Stay,  sir,  I  may  save  you  some  trouble  on  ni}^  account. 
I  have  no  fortune,  nor  any  claim  upon  my  uncle's  estate." 

"Pardon  me,  young  lady,  but  the  circumstance  of  my 
position  has  made  me  acquainted  with  matters  connected 
with  your  family;  your  claim  extends  to  a  very  consider- 
able and  a  very  valuable  property." 

"Once  more,  sir,  I  must  interrupt  you,  — I  have  none." 

"If  I  dare  contradict  you,  I  would  say  —  " 

"Nay,  nay,  sir,"  cried  she,  blushing,  partly  from  shame 
and  partly  from  anger,  "this  must  cease;  I  know  not  what 
right  you  have  to  press  the  avowal  from  me.  The  property 
you  speak  of  is  no  longer  mine ;  my  uncle  did  me  the  honor 
to  accept  it  from  me.  Would  that  the  gift  could  express 
the  thousandth  part  of  the  love  I   bear  him." 

"You  gave  over  your  claim  to  your  uncle!  "  said  Hems- 
worth,  leaving  a  pause  between  every  word  of  the  sen- 
tence, while  a  look  of  malignant  anger  settled  on  his  browo 


THE   DAY   OF   RECKONING.  133 

"Who  dares  to  question  me  on  such  a  subject?"  said 
Kate ;  for  the  insulting  expression  so  suddenly  assumed  by 
Hemsworth  roused  all  her  indignation. 

"Is  this,  then,  really  so?"  said  Hemsworth,  who,  so  un- 
accustomed as  he  ever  was  to  be  overreached,  felt  all  the 
poignancy  of  a  deception  in  his  disappointment. 

Kate  made  no  answer,  but  moved  towards  the  door,  while 
Hemsworth  sprang  forward  before  her,  and  placed  his  back 
against  it. 

"What  means  this,  or  how  comes  it  that  you  dare  to 
treat  me  thus   beneath  my  uncle's  roof?" 

"One  word  only.  Miss  O'Donoghue,"  said  Hemsworth, 
with  an  effort  to  assume  his  habitual  tone  of  deference. 
"May  I  ask,  was  this  transfer  of  property  made  legally  and 
formally  ?  " 

"Sir!  "  said  Kate,  as,  drawing  herself  up,  she  stared  full 
at  him,   without  another  word  of  reply. 

"I  see  it  all,"  said  Hemsworth,  rapidly,  and  as  if  think- 
ing aloud.  "This  was  the  money  that  paid  off  Hickson; 
in  this  way  the  mortgage  was  redeemed,  and  the  bond  for 
two  thousand  also  recovered,  —  duped  and  cheated  at  every 
step.  And  so,  madam,"  —  here  he  turned  a  look  of  insult- 
ing menace  towards  her, — "I  have  been  the  fool  in  your 
hands  all  this  time;  and  not  content  with  thwarting  my 
views,  you  have  endeavored  to  sap  the  source  of  my  for- 
tune. Yes,  you  need  not  affect  ignorance;  I  know  of  Sir 
Archibald's  kind  interference  in  my  behalf.  Sir  Marma- 
duke  Travers  has  withdrawn  his  agency  from  me:  he  might 
have  paused  to  inquire  where  was  the  property  from  which 
he  has  removed  me,  —  how  much  of  it  owns  him  the  master 
or  me.  This  was  your  uncle's  doing.  I  have  it  under  his 
own  hand,  and  the  letter  addressed  to  yourself." 

"And  you  dared,  sir,  to  break  the  seal  of  my  letter!  " 

"I  did  more,  madam,  —  I  sent  a  copy  of  it  to  the  Secre- 
tary of  State,  whose  warrant  I  possess.  The  young  officials 
of  the  Home  Office  will,  doubtless,  thank  me  for  the  amuse- 
ment I  have  afforded  them  in  its  contents.  The  match- 
making talents  of  Sir  Archy,  and  his  niece's  fascinations, 
have,  however,  failed  for  once.  Tlie  Guardsman  seems  to 
have  got  over  his  short-lived  passion." 


134  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

*' Stand  back,  sir,  and  let  me  pass." 

"One  moment  more,  madam.  If  I  have  suffered  some 
injuries  from  your  family,  I  have  at  least  one  debt  of 
gratitude  to  acknowledge.  But  for  your  note,  written  by 
your  own  hand,  I  should  scarcely  have  succeeded  in  cap- 
turing a  rebel,  whose  treason  will  not  long  await  its 
penalty;  but  for  your  able  assistance,  your  cousin  might 
have  escaped.  Indeed,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  inform 
you  that  Sir  Archibald  had  good  hopes  of  obtaining  his 
pardon,  —  a  circumstance  which  will,  doubtless,  be  satis- 
factory to  the  surviving  members  of  his  family." 

"My  cousin  Mark  taken!  "  cried  Kate,  as  she  clasped  her 
hands  to  either  side  of  her  head  in  a  paroxysm  of  agony. 

"Taken,  and  on  his  way  to  Dublin  under  a  military 
escort.  On  Wednesday  he  will  be  tried  by  court-martial. 
I  hope  and  trust  on  Thursday  —  .  But,  perhaps,  it  would 
be  cruel  to  tell  you  of  Thursday's  proceedings." 

Kate  reeled,  and  endeavored  to  support  herself  by  a  chair; 
but  a  sickness  like  death  crept  over  her,  and,  with  a  faint, 
low  sigh,  she  sank  lifeless  on  the  floor.  At  the  same 
instant  the  door  was  burst  open  by  a  tremendous  effort,  and 
Hemsworth  sent  forward  into  the  room.  It  was  Mark, 
splashed  and  dripping,  his  face  flushed  with  violent  exer- 
tion, that  entered.  With  one  glance  at  Hemsworth,  and 
another  at  the  fainting  form  before  him,  he  seemed  to 
divine  all. 

"Our  day  of  reckoning  is  come  at  last,  sir,"  said  he,  in 
a  low,  distinct  voice:  "it  has  been  somewhat  tardy, 
however." 

"If  you  have  any  claim  on  me,  Mr.  O'Donoghue,"  said 
Hemsworth,  with  a  forced  calmness,  "I  am  ready,  at  a 
proper  time  and  place,  to  offer  you  every  satisfaction." 

"That  time  and  place  is  here,  sir,"  said  Mark,  as,  with* 
out  the  slightest  sign  of  passion,  he  bolted  the  door,  and 
drew  a  heavy  table  across  it.  "Here,  in  this  room,  from 
which  both  of  us  shall  never  walk  forth  alive." 

"Take  care,  sir,  what  you  do;  I  am  armed,"  said  Hems- 
worth, as  he  threw  a  quick  glance  around,  to  see  if  any 
hope  of  escape  should  present  itself. 

"And  so  am  I,"  said  Mark,  coolly,  who  still  busied  him- 


THE   DAY   OF   RECKONING.  135 

self  in  removing  every  object  from  the  middle  of  the  room, 
while,  gently  lifting  Kate,  he  laid  her,  still  unconscious  as 
she  was,  upon  a  sofa.  "  We  have  neither  of  us  much  time 
to  throw  away,  I  fancy,"  said  he,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 
"Choose  your  place,  now,  sir,  and  fire  when  you  please,  — 
mine  is  yonder!  "  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  turned  half  round  to 
walk  towards  the  spot  indicated.  With  the  quickness  of 
lightning,  Hemsworth  seized  the  moment,  and,  drawing  a 
pistol  from  his  bosom,  aimed  and  fired.  The  ball  grazed 
Mark's  shoulder,  and  made  him  stagger  forwards;  but  in  a 
moment  he  recovered  himself.  The  casualty  saved  him, 
for,  while  falling,  a  second  bullet  whizzed  after  the  first. 
With  a  cry  of  vengeance  that  made  the  old  walls  ring 
again,  Mark  sprang  at  him.  It  was  the  deadly  leap  of  a 
tiger  on  his  prey.  The  impulse  was  such  that,  as  he 
caught  him  in  his  arms,  both  rolled  over  together  on  the 
floor.  The  struggle  was  but  brief.  Mark,  superior  in 
youth,  strength,  and  activity,  soon  got  him  under,  and, 
with  his  knee  upon  his  chest,  pinioned  him  down  to  the 
ground.  There  was  a  pause,  the  only  sounds  being  the 
quick-drawn  breathings  of  both,  as,  with  looks  of  hate, 
they  gazed  at  each  other.  While  with  one  hand  he  grasped 
Hemsworth  by  the  throat,  with  the  other  he  felt  for  his 
pistol.  Slowly  he  drew  forth  the  weapon,  and  cocked  it; 
then,  laying  the  cold  muzzle  upon  the  other's  forehead,  he 
pressed  the  trigger;  the  cock  snapped,  but  the  priming 
burned.  He  flung  the  weapon  from  him  in  passion,  and 
drew  another;  but,  ere  he  could  adjust  it,  Hemsworth 
ceased  to  breathe.  A  cold,  livid  color  spread  over  his 
features,  and  a  clammy  sweat  bedewed  his  forehead,  —  he 
had  fainted. 

Mark  dropped  the  uplifted  weapon  as  he  muttered,  "It 
was  a  fitting  fate,  — the  death  of  a  coward."  Then,  stand- 
ing up,  he  approached  the  window  that  overlooked  the  road, 
and  threw  it  wide  open.  The  storm  still  blew  with  all  its 
force,  and  in  a  second  extinguished  the  lights  in  the  room, 
leaving  all  in  darkness.  With  cautious  steps  Mark  moved 
towards  where  the  body  lay,  and,  lifting  it  in  his  powerful 
arms,  carried  it  towards  the  window;  with  one  vigorous 
effort  he  hurled  the  lifeless  form  from  him,  and  the  hea\^ 


136  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

mass  was  heard  as  it  fell  crashing  among  the  brushwood 
that  covered  the  precipice. 

Mark  gazed  for  a  few  seconds  into  the  black  abyss 
beneath,  and  then  withdrawing,  he  closed  the  window  and 
barred  it.  By  the  aid  of  his  pistol,  he  struck  a  light  and 
relighted  the  candles,  and  then  approached  the  sofa  where 
Kate  lay. 

"  Have  I  been  ill,  Mark  ?  "  said  she,  as  she  touched  his 
hand,  —  "  have  I  been  ill,  and  dreaming  a  horrid  dream  ?  I 
thought  Hemsworth  was  here,  and  that  —  that  —  But  he 
was  here  —  I  know  it  now  —  you  met  him  here.  Oh,  Mark ! 
dearest  Mark !  what  has  happened  —  where  is  he  ?  " 

Mark  pointed  to  the  window,  but  never  spoke. 

"Is  he  killed, — did  you  kill  him?"  cried  she,  as  her 
eyes  grew  wild  with  the  expression  of  terror.  "  Oh,  merci- 
ful Heaven !  who  has  visited  us  so  heavily,  why  will  reason 
remain  when  madness  would  be  mercy!  You  have  killed 
him!" 

"He  did  not  die  by  my  hand,  though  he  well  deserved  to 
have  done  so,"  said  Mark,  sternly;  "but  are  our  hours  to 
be  so  many  now,  that  we  can  waste  them  on  such  a  theme  ? 
The  French  are  in  the  bay,  —  at  least  a  portion  of  the  fleet. 
Sixteen  vessels,  nine  of  which  are  ships  of  the  line,  are 
holding  by  their  anchors  beneath  our  cliffs;  twenty  more 
are  at  sea,  or  wrecked,  or  captured  by  the  English:  for 
who  can  tell  the  extent  of  our  disasters?  All  is  against 
us ;  but  against  all  we  might  succeed  if  we  had  not  traitors 
amongst  us." 

"The  Government  is  aware  of  the  plot,  Mark;  knows 
every  man  engaged  in  it,  and  is  fully  prepared  to  meet  your 
advance." 

"Such  is  the  rumor;  but  there's  no  truth  in  it.  The 
people  hold  back,  and  give  this  as  the  excuse  for  their 
cowardice.  The  priests  will  not  harangue  them,  and  the 
panic  spreads  every  moment  wider,  of  treachery  and 
betrayal.  Lanty  Lawler,  the  fellow  who  should  have  sup- 
plied horses  for  the  artillery,  is  an  informer;  so  are  half 
the  others.  There  's  nothing  for  it  but  a  bold  plunge,  — 
something  to  put  every  neck  in  the  halter,  and  then  will 
come  the  spirit  1o  meet  all  ditliculties.  So  thinks  Tone, 
and  he  's  a  noble-hearted  fellow,  and  ready  for  any  peril." 


THE  DAY  OF  RECKONING.  137 

A  loud  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  tower  now  broke  in 
upon  the  converse,  and  Kerry  O'Leary  called  aloud,  — 

"Open  the  door,  Master  Mark;  be  quick,  the  soldiers  is 
comin'." 

Mark  speedily  withdrew  the  heavy  table  from  its  place 
across  the  door,  and  opened  it.  Kerry,  his  clothes  reduced 
to  rags,  and  his  face  and  hands  bleeding,  stood  before 
him,  terror  in  every  feature.  "They  took  me  prisoner  at 
the  gate  there,  but  I  contrived  to  slip  away,  and  took  to  the 
mountain,  and  a  fine  chase  they  gave  me  for  the  last  hour." 

"But  the  soldiers,  — where  are  they,  and  in  what  place?  " 

''There  's  two  troops  of  horse  about  a  mile  below  Mary's 
in  the  glen,  waiting  for  Hems  worth's  orders  to  advance." 

"Go  on,"  said  Mark,  with  a  stern  smile;  "they're  not 
likely  to  move  for  some  time." 

"I  do  not  know  that,  then,"  said  Kerry,  "for  I  saw 
Hemsworth  pass  up  the  road,  w^ith  two  men  holding  him  on 
his  horse.  He  seemed  to  have  got  a  bad  fall,  for  the  blood 
was  running  down  his  face,  and  his  cheeks  was  as  pale  as  a 
corpse. " 

"You  saw  Hemsworth,  and  he  was  living!  " 

"Faix  he  was,  and  no  doubt  of  it;  there  never  was  the 
man  in  these  parts  could  curse  and  swear  the  way  he  does, 
barrin'  himself,  and  1  heerd  him  blasphamiug  away  as  he 
went  along  what  he  would  n't  do  down  here." 

"Oh,  fly,  Mark;  don't  lose  a  second,  for  Heaven's 
sake  —  " 

"And  leave  you  here  to  the  mercy  of  this  scoundrel  and 
his  bloodhounds !  " 

"No,  no;  we  are  safe  here;  he  dare  not  wreak  his  ven- 
geance on  us:  but  you  are  his  greatest  enemy." 

"'Tis  thrue  she 's  sayin',"  cried  Kerry,  eagerly.  "I 
heerd  Hemsworth  say  to  Sam  Wylie  that  Captain  Travers 
is  up  at  Macroom  with  his  regiment,  and  was  coming  down 
to  guard  the  castle  here ;  but  that  there  was  plenty  of  time 
to  take  you  before  he  came,  and  there  was  a  tree  standing 
to  hang  you,   besides." 

"I  leave  you,  then,  in  safe  keeping,"  said  Mark,  with  a 
touch  of  sarcasm  in  his  voice;  "one  word  of  good-bye  to 
my  father,  and  I  am  gone." 


138  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

It  was  some  moments  before  the  O'Doiioghue  could  rally 
from  the  deep  stupor  grief  and  anxiety  induced,  and  recog- 
nize Mark  as  he  leaned  over  his  chair,  and  then,  as  he  felt 
his  hands  and  clutched  his  arms,  he  seemed  endeavoring  to 
persuade  himself  that  it  was  not  some  passing  dream  he 
labored  under. 

"The  pursuit  is  too  hot,  father,"  said  Mark,  after  two  or 
three  efforts  to  arouse  his  mind  to  what  was  going  forward, 
''and  I  must  be  off.  Hemsworth  has  a  strong  party  in  the 
glen ;  but  fear  nothing,  he  cannot  molest  you,  and,  besides, 
his  time  is  brief  now." 

"And  will  you  leave  me,  Mark,  — will  j^ou  desert  me, 
now? "  said  the  old  man,  with  all  the  selfishness  of  age,  for- 
getting everj^thing  save  his  own  feelings. 

''Not  if  you  wish  me  to  remain;  if  you  think  there  is 
more  honor  in  my  being  taken  prisoner  under  your  own 
roof,  I  'm  just  as  willing." 

"Oh,  no,  uncle,"  cried  Kate,  rushing  forward;  "do  not 
keep  him.  Say  good-b^'e,  and  speedily;  the  dragoons  are 
advancing  already." 

"There  goes  a  shot!  that  was  a  cannon,"  cried  Mark,  in 
ecstasy,  as  he  lifted  his  hand  to  catch  the  sound.  "An- 
other! another!  they  're  landing,  —  they  're  coming.  You  '11 
see  me  again  before  da^^break,  father,"  said  he,  embracing 
the  old  man  tenderly,  while  he  turned  to  bid  Kate  adieu. 
She  stood  with  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  her  bosom  heav- 
ing violently.  Mark  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment,  and, 
pressing  his  lips  to  her  cheek,  merely  whispered  one  word, 
and  was  gone. 

Hemsworth's  horse,  which  Kerry  had  found  in  the  stable, 
stood  ready  awaiting  Mark,  and  without  a  moment's  loss  of 
time  he  sprang  on  the  animal's  back,  and  dashed  down  the 
road  at  full  speed.  Meanwhile  the  loud  firing  of  cannon 
continued  at  intervals  towards  the  bay,  and  more  than  one 
rocket  was  seen  to  throw  its  bright  glare  through  the  black- 
ness of  the  night. 

"They're  landing  at  last,"  cried  Mark,  as  every  report 
set  his  heart  bounding  with  eager  hope,  and  forward  he  rode 
throuofh  the  storm. 


CHAPTER   XL VIII. 

THE    GLEN    AND    THE    BAT. 

Kerry  O'Leary's  intelligence  was  correct  in  every  par- 
ticular. Hemsworth  was  not  only  living,  but,  save  some 
burises  and  a  cut  upon  his  forehead,  was  little  the  worse 
for  his  adventure.  The  brushwood  had  caught  him  in  his 
descent,  and  broken  the  fall ;  and  although  the  height  was 
considerable,  when  he  reached  the  ground  he  was  merely 
stunned,  and  not  seriously  injured.  After  a  little  time  he 
was  able  to  walk,  and  had  succeeded  in  advancing  about 
half  a  mile  up  the  glen  when  he  was  met  by  Wylie  and  a 
party  of  his  followers,  returning  after  escorting  the  chaise 
some  miles  on  the  road. 

Neither  our  space  nor  our  inclination  permit  us  to  dwell 
on  the  scene  that  followed,  where  Hemsworth,  outwitted 
and  duped  as  he  believed  himself,  gave  way  to  the  most 
violent  passion,  accusing  every  one  in  turn  of  treachery, 
and  vowing  a  deep  and  blood}^  vengeance  on  the  whole  house 
of  O'Donoghue. 

Seated  on  Wylie 's  horse,  and  supported  on  each  side  by 
two  men,  —  for  at  first  his  weakness  increased  as  he  found 
himself  in  the  saddle,  — he  went  along  at  a  foot's  pace.  He 
would  not  listen  to  Wylie' s  proposal  of  returning  to  the 
Lodge,  but  constantly  called  out,  "  To  Keim-an-eigh  as  fast 
as  possible ;  to  the  dragoons !  "  And  at  last  passion  had  so 
far  supplied  energy  that  he  was  able  to  press  on  faster; 
when  suddenly  a  twinkling  light  through  the  gloom  apprised 
him  that  he  was  near  the  little  wayside  inn. 

"Get  me  some  wine,  Wylie,  and  be  quick!  "  cried  he,  as 
they  reached   the  door. 

"You  had  better  get  off  and  rest  a  few  moments,  sir," 
said  the  other. 


140  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"Rest I  —  I  '11  never  rest,"  shouted  he,  with  an  infamous 
oath,  "  till  I  see  that  fellow  waving  from  the  gallows !  Some 
wine  this  instant!  " 

To  the  loud  summons  of  "VYylie  no  answer  was  returned, 
and  the  light  that  shone  so  brightly  a  moment  before  was 
now  extinguished. 

"Break  open  the  door!  B — t  you!  what  do  you  delay 
about?  "  shouted  Hems  worth.  "There  are  some  rebel 
tricks  at  work  here." 

At  the  same  instant  the  light  reappeared,  and  Mary's 
voice  was  heard  from  within. 

"Who  's  that,  at  this  hour  of  the  night,  making  such  a 
noise?" 

"Open  the  door,  and  be  d — d  to  you!  "  cried  Hems  worth, 
who,  having  got  off  his  horse,  was  now  endeavoring  with 
his  foot  to  force  the  strong  door. 

"It  will  take  a  better  man  than  you  to  stave  that  panel 
in,"  said  Mary,  who,  although  recognizing  the  voice, 
affected  not  to  know  the  speaker.  And  she  said  truly:  the 
door  once  made  part  of  the  rudder  of  an  Indiaman,  and 
was  strong  oak   belted  with  iron. 

"Put  a  light  in  the  thatch!  Snap  your  pistol,  Wylie, 
and  set  fire  to  it!"  cried  Hemsworth,  savagely;  for  any 
opposition  to  him  at  this  moment  called  forth  all  the 
malignity  of  his  nature. 

"Oh,  is  it  you.  Captain?"  said  Mar}^,  with  a  voice  of 
well-affected  respect ;  "  the  Lord  pardon  me  for  keeping  you 
out  in  the  cold !  "  And  with  that  she  opened  the  door,  and 
with  many  a  low  courtesy,  saluted  her  guest. 

Rudely  pushing  her  aside,  and  muttering  an  oath.  Hems- 
worth  entered  the  cabin,  followed  by  the  others. 

"Why  was  the  light  put  out,"  said  he,  "when  you  heard 
us  knocking  at  the  door?  " 

"I  did  not  hear  the  knocking,"  said  Mary.  "I  was  in 
the  little  room  there,  and  goin'  to  bed.  The  saints  be  good 
to  me!  since  the  soldiers  were  here,  the  hearing  is  knocked 
out  of  me,  —  the  noise  and  the  ballyragging  they  went  on 
with,  from  mornin'  till  night!  And  now  that  they  are 
gone,  —  thanks  to  your  honor,  that  ordered  them  away  two 
days  ago  up  to  the  Lodge,  —  I  do  be  thinking  they  are  here 
still." 


THE   GLEN  AND   THE   BAY.  141 

"Bring  us  some  wine,"  said  Hemswortb,  *'and  the  best 
in  your  bouse.  You  need  not  spare  the  tap  to-night,  for 
it 's  the  last  you  will  ever  draw  beneath  this  roof.  There  — 
don't  look  surprised  and  innocent  —  you  know  well  what  I 
mean.  This  is  a  rebel  den,  but  I  will  leave  it  a  heap  of 
ashes  before  I  quit  the  spot." 

''You'll  not  burn  my  little  place  down,  Captain?"  said 
Mary,  with  a  look  in  which  a  shrewd  observer  might  have 
read  a  very  different  expression  than  that  of  fear.  "You  '11 
not  take  away  the  means  I  have  of  earning  my  bread  ? " 

"Bring  the  wine,  woman;  and,  if  you  don't  wish  to  wait 
for  the  bonfire,  be  off  with  you  up  the  glen.  I  '11  leave  a 
mark  on  this  spot  as  a  good  warning  to  traitors.  People 
shall  talk  of  it  hereafter,  and  point  to  it  as  the  place  where 
rebellion  met  its  first  lesson." 

"  And  who  dares  to  say  that  there  was  any  treason  in  this 
house." 

"If  my  oath,"  said  Wylie,  "won't  satisfy  you,  Mrs. 
M'lvelly  — " 

"Yours!  "  interrupted  Mary,  —  "yours!  —  a  transported 
felon's  oath!  " 

"What  do  you  think  of  your  old  sweetheart,  Lanty 
Lawler?"  said  Hemsworth,  as  he  drank  off  goblet  after 
goblet  of  the  strong  wine.  "Wouldn't  you  think  twice 
about  refusing  him  now,  if  you  knew  the  price  it  was  to 
cost  you?" 

"I  would  rather  see  my  bones  as  black  as  his  own 
traitor's  heart,"  cried  Mary,  with  flashing  eyes,  "than  I 
would  take  a  villain  like  that!  There,  Captain,  there  's  the 
best  of  the  cellar,  and  there's  the  house  for  you;  and 
there,"  said  she,  throwing  herself  on  her  knees,  "and 
there  's  the  curse  of  the  lone  woman  that  you  turn  out  this 
night  upon  the  road,  without  a  roof  to  shelter  her,  and  may 
it  light  on  you  now,   and  follow  you  hereafter!" 

"Clear  your  throat,  and  cool  it,  after  your  hot  wishes," 
said  Hemsworth,  with  a  brutal  laugh;  for  in  this  ebullition 
of  the  woman's  passion  was  the  first  moment  of  his 
enjoyment. 

AVith  a  gesture  of  menace,  and  a  denunciation  uttered  in 
Irish,  with  all  the  energy  the  native  language  possesses, 
Mary  turned  into  the  road,  and  left  her  home  forever. 


142  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

♦'What  was  that  she  said?"  said  Hemsworth,  turning  to 
one  of  the  men  that  stood  behind  the  chair. 

"It  was  a  saying  they  do  have  in  Irish,  sir,"  said  the 
fellow,  with  a  simper,  "and  the  meaning  of  it  is,  that  it 
is  n't  them  that  lights  a  bonfire  that  waits  to  dance  round 
the  ashes." 

"Ha!  that  was  a  threat,  then!  She  will  bring  the  rebels 
on  us ;  but  I  have  taken  good  care  for  that.  I  have  sent  a 
strong  party  by  the  other  road  to  cut  off  their  advance  from 
the  bay,  and  we  '11  hear  the  firing  time  enough  to  warn  us. 
And  that  party,"  said  Hemsworth,  mattering  to  himself, 
"should  be  at  their  post  by  this  time,"  —  here  he  looked  at 
his  watch,  —  "  it  is  now  eleven  o'clock.  You  took  the  order, 
Wylie,  for  Captain  Travers  to  go  round  by  Googawn  Barra, 
and  occupy  the  pass  between  Carrignacurra  and  Bantry 
Bay?" 

"I  did,  sir,  and  he  set  off  the  moment  I  gave  the  letter." 

"Then  the  fellow  Mark  cannot  escape  me,"  said  Hems- 
worth.  "If  he  leave  the  castle  before  I  come,  he  falls  into 
the  hands  of  the  others.  Still,  I  would  rather  be  judge  and 
jury  myself,  and  you  shall  be  the  hangman,  Sam.  There  's 
little  love  between  you;  it  is  an  office  you  '11  like  well." 

"If  I  don't  do  it  nate,"  said  Wylie,  "the  young  gentle- 
man must  forgive  me,  as  it  is  my  first  time."  And  they 
both  laughed  heartily  at  the  ruffian  jest. 

"But  what  are  we  staying  for?"  said  Hemsworth,  while 
he  drained  his  glass.  "Let  us  get  up  the  dragoons,  and 
make  sure  of  him  at  once.  I  am  strong  now,  and  ready  for 
any  exertion." 

"'Tis  a  pity  to  burn  the  little  place.  Captain,"  said  one 
of  the  fellows  of  the  party.  "There  's  many  a  dacent  boy 
would  think  himself  well  off  to  get  the  likes  of  it  for  his 
reward." 

"Make  yourself  at  home,"  said  Hemsworth,  "for  I'll 
give  you  a  lease  for  three  lives  of  it,  — yours,  Wylie's,  and 
mine  own:  will  that  satisfy  you?" 

The  fellow  stared  at  the  speaker,  and  then  looked  at 
Wylie,  as  if  not  knowing  whether  to  place  any  faith  in  the 
words  he  heard. 

"I  did  n't  say  you  were  to  get  the  premises   in  good 


THE   GLEN  AND  THE   BAY.  143 

repair,  however,"  said  Hemsworth,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  — 
"I  didn't  boast  much  about  the  roof;"  and  at  the  same 
moment  he  took  a  Hghted  turf  from  the  hearth,  and  thrust 
it  into  the  thatch,  while  Wylie,  to  curry  favor  with  his 
patron,   imitated  his  example. 

''Where  does  that  door  lead  to?  "  said  Hemsworth, 
pointing  to  the  small  portal  which  led  into  the  rock  towards 
the  stable. 

"That 's  the  way  to  the  stable,"  said  Wylie,  as  he  opened 
it,  and  looked  down  the  passage;  "and  here  's  another  door 
that  I  never  saw  before." 

"That's  where  she  do  keep  the  spirits,  sir,"  said  one  of 
the  men;  "'tis  there  she  do  have  all  the  liquor." 

"There  's  nothing  like  whiskey  for  a  blaze,"  said  Hems- 
worth, with  a  half-drunken  laugh.  "Burst  open  that  door!  " 
But  all  their  efforts  were  vain;  it  was  made  with  every 
precaution  of  strength,  and  studded  over  with  strong 
nails. 

"Stop!  "  said  Hemsworth,  as  he  pushed  the  others  rudely 
away,  "there  's  a  readier  plan  than  yours  to  force  it.  I  '11 
blow  the  lock  to  pieces!  "  And,  so  saying,  he  took  the 
pistol  from  Wylie's  hand,  and,  having  leisurely  examined 
the  priming  and  the  flint,  placed  the  muzzle  in  the  lock. 

"Be  quick,  sir,  be  quick!"  said  Wylie;  "the  place  is 
filling  with   smoke!" 

And  so  it  was ;  the  crackling  of  the  thatch,  and  the  dense 
masses  of  black  smoke  that  filled  the  cabin,  showed  that 
the  work  of  destruction  was  begun. 

"Here,  then:  this  is  to  put  the  seal  to  your  lease,  Peter," 
said  Hemsworth,   as  he  pulled  the  trigger. 

A  quick  report  followed,  and  then  a  crashing  sound,  as 
of  splintered  timber;  and  sudden  as  the  lightning  flash  itself, 
a  noise  burst  forth  louder  than  thunder,  and  at  the  same 
moment  the  house,  and  all  that  were  in  it,  were  blown  into 
the  air;  while  the  massive  rock  was  shattered  from  its  base 
full  fifty  feet  up  above  the  road.  Report  after  report  fol- 
lowed, each  accompanied  by  some  new  and  fearful  explosion, 
until  at  length  a  great  portion  of  the  cliff  was  rent  asunder, 
and  scattered  in  huge  fragments  across  the  road,  where, 
amid  the  crumbling  masonry  and  the  charred  rafters,  lay 


144  THE   O'DOXOGHUE. 

four  black  and  lifeless  bodies,  without  a  trait  which  should 
distinguish  one  from  the  other. 

All  was  silent  on  the  spot;  but  through  every  glen  in  the 
mountains  the  echoing  sounds  sent  back  in  redoubled  peals 
the  thunder  of  that  di-eadful  explosion,  and  through  many 
a  far-off  valley  rung  out  that  last  requiem  over  the  dead. 

For  some  time  the  timbers  and  the  thatch  continued  to 
burn,  emitting  at  intervals  lurid  bursts  of  flame,  as  more 
combustible  matter  met  the  fire,  while  now  and  then  a  great 
report,  and  a  sudden  explosion,  would  announce  that  some 
hitherto  untouched  store  of  powder  became  ignited,  until, 
as  day  was  breaking,  the  flames  waned  and  died  out,  leav- 
ing the  rent  rocks  and  the  ruined  cabin  the  sad  memorials 
of  the  event. 

Nor  were  these  the  only  occurrences  of  which  the  glen 
was  that  night  the  witness.  Mark,  his  brain  burning  for 
the  moment  when  the  fray  should  commence,  rode  on  amid 
the  storm,  the  crashing  branches  and  the  loud  brawling 
torrents  seeming  to  arouse  the  wild  spirit  within  him,  and 
lash  his  enthusiasm  even  to  madness.  The  deafening 
clamor  of  the  hurricane  increased  as  he  came  nearer  the 
bay,  where  the  sea,  storm-lashed  and  swollen,  beat  on  the 
rocks  with  a  din  like   artillery. 

But  louder  far  than  all  other  sounds  were  the  minute 
peals  of  cannon  from  the  bay,  making  the  deep  valleys  ring 
with  their  clangor,  and  sending  their  solemn  din  into  many 
a  far-otf  glen. 

"They  are  coming,  — they  are  coming!  "  cried  Mark,  as 
he  bounded  madly  in  his  saddle.  "What  glorious  music 
have  they  for  their  march!  " 

"  Stop !  —  pull  in !  —  hould  hard,  Master  Mark !  "  screamed 
a  voice  from  the  side  of  the  road,  as  a  fellow  jumped  from 
a  cliff,   and  made  towards  the  rider. 

"Don't  delay  me  now,  Terry,  I  cannot  stay,"  said  Mark, 
as  he  recognized  the  youth;  "the  French  are  landing!  " 

"They  are  not!  "  cried  Terry,  with  a  yell  of  despair; 
"they  are  going  off,  leaving  us  forever,  and  the  glen  is  full 
of  soldiers.  The  dragoons  is  there,  — ay,  not  half  a  mile 
from  you,"  as  he  pointed  through  the  gloom  in  the  direction 
of  the  glen. 


THE   GLEN  AKD  THE   BAY.  145 

''The  dragoons  there!  —  what  treachery  is  this?" 

''I  saw  them  coming  round  the  head  of  the  lake  this 
evening,  and  I  thought  it  was  after  me  they  were  coming; 
but  they  never  turned  off  the  road,  but  went  on  to  the  gap 
of  the  glen,  and  there  they  are  now,  waiting,  I  suppose,  for 
the  French  to  go." 

"The  French  are  not  going,  fool;  they  are  landing! 
Don't  you  hear  the  guns  —  there!  and  there  again!  There 
is  but  one  way  now,  but  a  bold  heart  needs  no  more.  Let 
go  the  bridle,   Terry." 

"I  can't  —  I  won't  let  go.  'T  is  cut  to  pieces  you  '11  be. 
I  seen  them  looking  at  their  swords  a  while  ago.  Och, 
don't  twist  my  hand  that  way!" 

"Leave  me  free!  There  is  no  such  armor  of  proof  as 
recklessness !  " 

As  he  spake,  he  reined  in  his  horse,  and,  dashing  the 
spurs  into  his  flanks,  sprang  beyond  Terry,  and  the  next 
moment  was  out  of  sight.  A  very  few  minutes  showed  that 
Terry  was  but  too  accurate.  Around  a  blazing  fire  beneath 
the  rock  a  party  of  dragoons  were  dismounted,  vainly  seek- 
ing to  dry  their  soaked  clothes,  while  in  front  two  mounted 
men  could  be  seen  with  their  carbines  unslung,  ready  for 
action. 

A  bold  dash  to  force  his  way  through  was  the  only  chance 
remaining.  To  depend  on  his  horse's  speed,  and  his  own 
dexterous  hand  to  guide  him,  was  all  his  hope.  He 
resolved,  therefore,  neither  to  draw  sword  nor  pistol,  but 
attempt  to  pass  by  sheer  horsemanship.  Few  men  were 
either  better  suited  for  a  venture  so  daring,  or  better 
equipped  at  the  moment.  The  animal  he  rode  was  a  power- 
ful thorough-bred,  trained  and  managed  to  perfection. 

Without  the  slightest  noise  Mark  dismounted,  and  un- 
girthing  his  saddle,  readjusted  and  fastened  it  further  back. 
He  then  looked  carefully  to  his  bridle,  to  see  all  was  safe 
there,  and  loosened  the  curb,  to  give  the  horse  free  play  of 
his  head.  This  done,  and  with  his  cap  pressed  firmly  down 
upon  his  brow,  he  sprang  into  his  saddle  once  more. 

The  bright  blaze  enabled  him  to  see  the  party  in  front, 
and,  while  he  himself  escaped  all  observation,  to  devise  his 
plans  at  leisure.     He  advanced,  therefore,  at  a  slow  walk, 

VOL.  II.  — 10 


146  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

keeping  the  horse's  feet  in  the  deep  ground,  where  no  noise 
was  made.  He  counted  seven  flgures  around  the  fire,  and 
two  as  sentinels,  and  suspected  at  once  that  the  whole  party 
was  not  there.  Still  there  was  no  other  chance.  To 
attempt  the  mountain  would  delay  him  a  day  at  least,  and 
a  day  now  was  a  lifetime.  Creeping  noiselessly  forward, 
he  came  within  a  few  yards  of  the  outposts,  and  could  dis- 
tinctly hear  the  voices  as  they  talked  together.  He  halted 
for  a  second  or  two,  and  looked  back  down  the  glen.  It 
was  an  involuntary  action,  for  even  had  all  not  been  dark 
around  him,  his  home,  to  which  he  wished  to  bid  a  last 
adieu,   was  out  of  sight. 

A  cannon-shot  rang  out  at  the  instant,  and,  taking  it  for 
a  signal,  Mark  reined  in  his  horse  sharply,  and  then,  dash- 
ing the  spurs  to  his  sides,  made  him  plunge  madly  forward, 
and,  with  the  bound,  shot  through  the  space  between  the 
two  sentinels,  each  of  whom  presented,  but  feared  to  fire, 
lest  he  should  injure  his  comrade. 

"Come  on  —  follow  me!  "  cried  Mark,  waving  his  hand 
as  if  encouraging  others  on;  and  the  action  turned  every 
look  down  the  glen  in  the  direction  from  whence  he  came, 
and  whence  now  came  a  wild,  shrill  yell,  the  most  savage 
and  appalling. 

"Fire!  —  down  with  him!  —  fire!  "  shouted  the  soldiers  to 
one  another  as  Mark,  leaning  flat  on  his  horse's  mane,  rode 
on;  and  the  balls  whistled  quick,  above  and  around,  but 
not  one  struck  him.  "  After  him.  Jack,  —  after  him !  " 
cried  one  of  the  sentinels,  who,  perceiving  that  Mark  was 
not  followed,  turned  his  horse  to  the  pursuit;  but  another 
yell,  wilder  than  the  first,  arrested  him,  and  he  heard  a  voice 
screaming,  "This  way,  boys,  this  way, — we  have  them 
here!  "  and  Terry,  waving  his  cap,  bounded  forward,  and 
called  out  unceasingly  for  others  to  come  on.  In  an  instant 
the  whole  attention  was  turned  to  the  front,  while  with  the 
stroke  of  a  sabre  poor  Terry  was  stretched  upon  the  ground, 
bleeding  and  senseless. 

"It  is  only  that  cursed  fool  we  used  to  see  at  Macroom 
about  the  barrack  gates,"  said  one  of  the  dragoons,  as  he 
held  a  piece  of  lighted  wood  beside  his  face,  "and  the/ 
other  fellow  cannot  have  had  much  more  sense,  or  he  would 


/k^'l-i 


'A  y.yyyz.6^  ^  ^^^^Ty^^^y 


^     OF   THE 

UiNIVERSlTY 

OF 


THE   GLEN  AND  THE   BAY.  147 

never  have  tried  to  ride  through  a  squadron  of  horse.  But 
there!  —  he's  down  now!  Did  you  hear  that  crash?  —  that 
was  a  horse  that  fell." 

So  it  was ;  Mark  had  but  passed  the  first  party  to  fall  on 
a  much  more  formidable  body  farther  on,  and  his  horse, 
twice  wounded,  was  at  last  struck  in  the  shoulder,  and  fell 
headlong  to  the  ground,  pinioning  the  rider  beneath  him. 
With  a  dexterity  that  seemed  magical,  Mark  disengaged 
himself  from  the  wounded  animal,  and,  drawing  his  pistols, 
prepared  to  sell  his  life  dearly. 

"You  are  a  prisoner,  sir,"  called  out  the  sergeant,  as 
with  fearless  step  he  marched  towards  him. 

"Another  pace  nearer,  and  I  '11  send  a  bullet  through 
you,"  said  Mark;  "you  may  have  my  corpse  for  your  booty, 
but  you'll  never  lay  hands  on  me  living." 

"Don't  fire,  don't  fire,  men!  "  cried  a  voice,  as  the  officer 
rode  up  at  the  speed  of  his  horse,  and  then,  throwing  him- 
self from  the  saddle,  commanded  the  men  to  fall  back. 
With  looks  of  astonishment,  and  even  of  anger,  the 
dragoons  retired,  while  the  captain,  sheathing  his  sword, 
approached  Mark. 

"Thank  Heaven,  Mr.  O'Donoghue,  you  have  not  fired  at 
my  men." 

"Am  I  your  prisoner.  Captain  Travers?"  said  Mark, 
replacing  his  weapon. 

"No,  far  from  it;  it  was  to  serve  you  I  accepted  the 
command  of  this  party.  I  knew  of  the  plot  by  which  you 
were  threatened.     Hemsworth  —  " 

"He  is  gone  to  his  reckoning  now,"  said  Mark,  who 
never  gave  credit  to  Kerry's  story. 

"Not  dead,  — •  you  do  not  mean  that?  " 

"Even  so,  sir,  but  not  as  I  see  you  suspect." 

"No  matter  now,"  cried  Travers,  wildly;  for  a  thousand 
dreadful  fears  came  crowding  on  his  mind.  "You  must 
escape  at  once ;  this  will  be  worse  than  the  charge  of  treason 
itself.     Was  there  any  witness  to  his  death?" 

"None,"  said  Mark,  for  he  remembered  that  Kate  was 
still  fainting  during  the  struggle  he  believed  fatal. 

"You  must  escape  at  once,"  repeated  Travers,  for  with- 
out directly  attributing  guilt  to  Mark,  he  feared  the  conse- 


148  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

quence  of  this  dreadful  event.  "Keep  in  the  mountain  for 
some  little  time,  and  when  this  mad  enterprise  has  blown 
over  —  " 

"The  country  then  will  be  in  other  hands,"  interrupted 
Mark ;  "  ay,  sir,  you  may  look  and  feel  incredulous,  but  the 
time  is,  perhaps,  not  distant  when  I  may  be  able  to  return 
your  present  courtesy.     The  French  are  landing  —  " 

"They  are  putting  out  to  sea,  —  flying  —  not  advancing,'* 
said  Travers,   proudly. 

"No,  no,  you  mistake  them,"  said  Mark,  with  a  smile  of 
incredulity.  "I  heard  the  guns  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
since :  would  I  had  never  left  them !  " 

"  There,  take  my  horse,  mount  quickly,  and  make  for  the 
bay,  and  turn  him  loose  on  the  shore.  Reach  the  fleet 
if  you  can,  —  in  any  case,  escape ;  there  is  no  time  to 
lose." 

"And  you, — how  are  you  to  account  for  this?"  said 
Mark.  "Will  your  loyalty  stand  so  severe  a  trial  as  that 
of  having  assisted  a  rebel's  escape?" 

"Leave  me  to  meet  my  difficulties  my  own  way;  turn  your 
thoughts  to  your  own,  — Heaven  knows  they  are  enough." 

The  tone  he  spoke  in  appealed  to  Mark's  feelings  more 
strongly  than  all  he  said  before,  and  grasping  Travers' s 
hand,  he  said,  — 

"  Oh,  if  I  had  but  had  your  friendship  once,  how  differ- 
ent I  might  be  this  day ;  and  my  father  too,  —  what  is  to 
become  of  him?  " 

"  Spare  him  at  least  the  sorrow  of  seeing  his  son  arraigned 
on  a  charge  of  treason,  if  not  of  worse." 

Fortunately  Mark  heard  not  the  last  few  words,  which 
rather  fell  from  Travers  inadvertently,  and  were  uttered  in 
a  low  voice. 

"There!  "  cried  Mark,  as  the  loud  report  of  several  guns 
pealed  forth,  "they  have  landed;  they  will  soon  be  here." 

As  he  spoke,  a  mounted  dragoon  rode  up  to  Travers,  and 
whispered  a  few  words  in  his  ear.  Frederick  motioned  the 
man  to  fall  back,  and  then,  approaching  Mark,  said,  — 

"I  was  correct,  sir, — the  French  fleet  is  under  weigh; 
the  expedition  is  abandoned.  Away,  then,  before  your 
chance  is  lost;  down  to  the  bay,  and  get  on  board.     You 


THE   GLEN  AND  THE   BAY.  149 

will  at  least  find  a  path  where  there  is  glory  as  well  as 
peril;  there, — aAvay." 

"They  cannot  have  done  this,"  cried  Mark,  in  an  agony 
of  passion;  "they  w^ould  not  desert  the  cause  they  have 
fostered,   and  leave  us  to  our  fate  here." 

Mark  vaulted  on  Travers's  horse  as  he  said  this,  all  feel- 
ing for  his  own  safety  merged  in  his  anxiety  for  the  issue 
of  the  plot. 

"Treachery  we  have  had  enough  of;  we  may  be  well 
spared  the  curse  of  cowardice.  Good-bye ;  farewell.  Few, 
either  friends  or  foes,  have  done  me  the  services  that  you 
have.     If  we  are  to  meet  again,  Travers  — " 

"Farewell  —  farewell!"  cried  Travers;  "we  shall  never 
meet  as  enemies."  And  he  hastened  from  the  spot,  while 
Mark,  bending  forward  in  the  saddle,  pressed  the  spurs  to 
his  horse,  and  started. 

With  the  speed  of  one  who  cares  for  nothing  less  than 
his  own  safety,  Mark  urged  his  horse  onward,  and,  desert- 
ing the  ordinary  road,  he  directed  his  course  to  the  shore 
along  the  base  of  the  mountain,  —  a  rough  and  dangerous 
path,  beset  with  obstacles,  and  frequently  on  the  very  edge 
of  the  cliff.  At  last  he  reached  the  bay,  over  which  the 
dark  storm  was  raging  in  all  its  violence;  the  wind,  blow- 
ing with  short  and  sudden  gusts,  sent  the  great  waves  thun- 
dering against  the  rocks,  and  with  fearful  roar  through  the 
caves  and  crevices  of  the  coast.  Riding  madly  on  till  the 
white  foam  dashed  over  him,  he  turned  on  every  side, 
expecting  to  see  the  boats  of  the  fleet  making  for  the  land ; 
but  all  was  dreary  and  desolate.  He  shouted  aloud,  but 
his  voice  was  drowned  in  the  uproar  of  the  elements ;  and 
then,  but  not  till  then,  came  over  him  the  afflicting  dread 
of  desertion.  The  vivid  lightning  shot  to  and  fro  over  the 
bleak  expanse  of  sea,  but  not  a  sail  was  there,  —  all,  all 
were  gone. 

There  was  a  projecting  promontory  of  rock  which,  run- 
ning out  to  a  considerable  distance  in  the  bay,  shut  out  all 
view  beyond  it.  The  last  hope  he  cherished  was,  that  they 
might  have  sought  shelter  in  the  bay  beneath  this,  and, 
plunging  into  the  boiling  surf,  he  urged  his  horse  forward; 
now  madly  rearing  as  the  strong  sea  struck  him,  now  buffet- 


150  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

ing  the  white  waves  with  vigorous  chest,  the  noble  beast 
braved  the  storm-lashed  water,  and  bore  him,  alternately 
bounding  and  swimming,  as  the  tide  advanced  or  receded. 

The  struggle,  with  all  its  peril  to  life,  brought  back  the 
failing  courage  to  Mark's  heart,  and  he  cheered  his  horse 
with  a  cry  of  triumphant  delight  as  each  great  wave  passed 
over  them,  and  still  they  went  on  undaunted.  It  was  a 
short  but  desperate  achievement  to  round  the  point  of  the 
promontory,  where  the  sea  beat  with  redoubled  fury;  but 
the  same  daring  intrepidity  seemed  to  animate  both  horse 
and  rider,  and,  after  a  moment  of  extreme  danger,  both 
gained  the  beach  in  safety.  At  the  very  same  instant  that 
the  animal  touched  the  strand,  a  quick  flash  broke  over  the 
sea,  and  then  came  the  thundering  report  of  a  cannon. 
This  was  answered  by  another  farther  out  to  sea,  and  then 
a  blue  light  burst  forth  on  high,  and  threw  its  lurid  glare 
over  the  spars  and  canvas  of  a  large  ship:  every  rope  and 
block,  every  man  and  every  gun,  were  displayed  in  the 
spectral  light.  It  was  a  grand,  but  still  an  appalling  sight, 
to  see  the  huge  mass  laboring  in  the  sea,  and  then  the  next 
moment  to  strain  the  eyes  through  the  black  canopy  of 
cloud  that  closed  around  her;  for  so  it  was,  as  the  light 
went  out,  no  trace  of  the  vessel  remained,  nor  was  there 
aught  to  mark  the  spot  she  had  occupied. 

From  time  to  time  the  flash  and  the  report  of  a  gun 
would  show  where  some  ship  struggled  with  the  raging  sea; 
but  to  Mark  all  was  m^^stery.  He  knew  not  what  it  might 
portend,  and  hesitated  between  hope  and  despair,  whether 
these  might  prove  the  preparations  for  disembarking,  or  the 
last  signal  before  sailing. 

In  the  low  hut  of  a  fisherman,  not  far  from  where  he  was, 
a  light  still  twinkled,  and  thither  he  hastened.  It  belonged 
to  the  man  who  had  rowed  him  on  board  of  the  frigate,  and 
with  whom  Kate  had  spoken  in  the  kitchen.  As  Mark 
reached  the  door,  he  heard  the  sound  of  several  voices  talk- 
ing in  a  low,  half-suppressed  tone.  Pushing  open  the  door, 
he  entered,  and  found  about  a  dozen  fishermen  standing 
over  the  lifeless  body  of  a  man  in  a  French  uniform. 

"Who  is  this?  —  what  has  happened?"  said  Mark, 
hurriedly. 


THE   GLEN  AND   THE   BAY.  151 

"It 's  oue  of  the  French  officers,  sir,"  said  Tom  M'Carthy ; 
"he  came  ashore  with  us  this  moruing,  and  to-night,  when 
it  came  on  to  blow,  and  he  saw  the  signals  to  sail,  he 
insisted  on  going  on  board  again,  and  we  did  our  best  for 
him.  We  twice  put  out,  and  twice  were  sent  back  again; 
but  the  last  time  we  tried  the  craft  was  upset,  and  the  poor 
fellow  could  not  swim,  and  we  never  saw  him  more  till  we 
found  his  body  on  the  strand,  about  an  hour  ago." 

Mark  held  the  light  beside  the  pale  features,  and  saw 
that  he  was  a  youth  of  not  more  than  eighteen  years. 
There  was  no  distortion  whatever,  and  the  features  were 
calm  and  tranquil,   as  if  in  sleep. 

"Let  us  lay  him  in  the  earth,  boys,"  said  Mark,  as  his 
voice  trembled  with  emotion;  "it  is  the  least  we  can  do  to 
let  him  sleep  in  the  land  he  came  to  save." 

The  men  lifted  the  body  without  a  word,  and,  preceded 
by  Mark,  who  carried  a  lantern,  issued  from  the  hut.  A 
few  paces  brought  them  to  a  little  grassy  mound,  where  the 
cliff,  descending  between  the  rocks,  preserved  its  rich 
verdure  untrodden  and  untouched. 

"Here,  this  will  do,  boys,"  said  Mark;  "this  rock  will 
mark  the  spot." 

The  work  was  soon  over,  and,  as  the  last  turf  was  laid 
over  him,  a  deafening  peal  of  artillery  thundered  over  the 
sea,  and  suddenly  lights  shone  here  and  there  through  the 
dark  atmosphere. 

"He  has  had  a  soldier's  burial,"  said  Mark;  "may  his 
rest  be  tranquil.  And  now,"  —  and  his  voice  assumed  a 
firm  and  determined  tone  at  the  moment,  —  "  and  now,  who 
w411  put  me  on  board  of  any  ship  in  that  fleet?  I  have 
neither  gold  to  offer,  nor  silver  to  bribe  you.  I  am  poor 
and  powerless ;  but  if  the  broad  lands  that  were  once  our  own 
were  mine  now,  I  'd  give  them  all  for  that  one  service." 

"No  boat  could  live  ten  minutes  in  that  surf.  There  's  a 
sea  running  there  would  swamp  a  schooner,"  said  an  old 
man  with  white  hair. 

"We'd  never  get  outside  the  breakers  yonder,"  said 
another. 

"I  think  we  've  had  enough  of  it  for  one  night,"  muttered 
a  third,  with  a  sidelong  glance  towards  the  recent  grave. 


152  THE   O'DONOGHUE. 

"And  you,"  said  Mark,  turning  fixedly  round  to  Tom 
M'Carthy,  "what  words  of  comfort  have  you  for  me?" 

"  B'aix,  that  I  'm  ready  and  wiilin'  to  go  with  you,  divil 
may  care  who  the  other  is,"  said  the  stout-hearted  fellow. 
"I  seen  the  day  you  jumped  into  a  boat  yourself  to  take 
the  crew  off  a  wreck  below  the  point  there,  and  I  took  an 
oath  that  night  I  'd  never  see  you  wanting  for  two  hands 
at  an  oar  as  long  as  I  could  pull  one.  The  waves  that 
is  n't  too  high  for  you  is  not  a  bit  too  big  for  me  either." 

''Well  done,  Tom,"  said  a  powerful-looking  young  fellow 
beside  him,  "  and  I  '11  be  the  bow  oar  for  you,  an  you  '11 
take  me." 

"And  here  's  .two  more  of  us,"  said  another,  as  he  held 
a  comrade  by  the  hand,  "  that  will  never  see  his  honor  at 
a  loss,   no  matter  how  it  blows." 

The  doubt  and  hesitation  which  prevailed  but  a  moment 
before  were  at  once  changed  for  confidence  and  resolution, 
and  eight  men  now  hurried  to  the  beach  to  launch  the  boat, 
and  make  ready  for  the  enterprise. 

"  If  we  could  only  see  a  flash,  or  hear  a  shot  now,  we  'd 
know  which  way  to  bear  down,"  said  Tom,  as  he  stood  on 
the  shore,  with  his  eyes  turned  seaward. 

"  There  —  there  goes  one !  "  cried  Mark,  as  a  red  flame 
shot  forth  and  glittered  for  a  second  over  the  dark  water. 

"There's  the  frigate, — she's  holding  on  still  by  her 
anchors." 

"I  knew  they  would  not  desert  us,  boys,"  cried  Mark, 
with  wild  enthusiasm,  for  hope  gained  on  him  every  moment 
as  peril  increased. 

"Now  for  it,  and  altogether!  "  said  Tom,  as  he  bent 
forward  against  the  whistling  storm,  and  the  craft,  as  if 
instinct  with  life,  bounded  over  the  wave,  and  cleft  her  way 
through  the  boiling  surf,  while  the  hardy  fishermen  strained 
every  nerve,  and  toiled  with  all  their  energy.  Mark,  kneel- 
ing in  the  bow,  his  eyes  strained  to  catch  any  signal, 
seemed  perfectly  delirious  in  the  transport  of  his  joy. 

"Luff  her  —  luff  her  —  here  comes  a  large  wave!  Nobly 
done,  lads!  — how  she  mounts  the  sea!  —  here  's  another." 
But  the  warning  was  this  time  too  late,  for  the  wave  broke 
over  the  boat,  and  fell  in  torrents  over   the   crew.     With 


THE   GLEN   AND   THE   BAY.  153 

redoubled  vigor  the  stout  fellows  bent  to  their  work,  and 
once  more  the  boat  sped  on  her  course,  while  Mark  cheered 
them  with  a  shout  heard  even  above  the  storm,  and,  with 
a  deep,  mellow  voice,  chanted  out  the  rude  verses  of  a 
song : — 

"  The  fisherman  loves  the  rippled  stream, 
And  the  lover  the  moonlight  sea; 
But  the  darkening  squall, 
And  the  sea-bird's  call, 
Are  dearer  far  to  me. 

"  To  see  on  the  white  and  crested  wave 
The  stormy  petrel  float, 
And  then  to  look  back 
On  the  stormy  track 
That  glitters  behind  our  boat !  " 

"Avast,  there.  Master  Mark;  there  's  wind  enough  with- 
out singing  for  more,"  cried  one  of  the  fishermen,  who, 
with  the  superstition  of  his  craft,  felt  by  no  means  pleased 
at  Mark's  ditty;  "and  there  comes  a  sea  to  poop  a  line-of- 
battle  ship !  "  And,  as  he  said  the  words,  a  wave,  moun- 
tains high,  rolled  past,  and  left  them  laboring  in  the  deep 
trough  of  the  sea,  while  the  lurid  glare  of  sheet  lightning 
showed  all  the  ships  of  the  fleet,  as,  with  topsails  bent,  they 
stood  out  to  sea. 

''There  they  go,"  said  one  of  the  fishermen;  "and  that 's 
all  the  good  they  've  done  us." 

"Pull  hard,  boys!"  cried  Mark,  passionately,  "it  may 
not  be  yet  too  late ;  strain  every  arm,  —  the  fate  of  our  coun- 
try may  rest  upon  those  bending  spars;  together,  men, 
together!  It  is  not  for  life  now,  it  is  Ireland  is  on  the  strug- 
gle! "  Thus  cheering  the  drooping  courage  of  the  men, 
and  eagerly  bending  his  glance  towards  the  sea,  his  own 
heart  glowed  with  enthusiasm  that  made  every  danger  for- 
gotten; and,  at  last,  after  an  hour  of  desperate  exertion, 
with  strength  all  but  exhausted,  and  nearly  overcome  by 
fatigue,  they  beheld  the  dark  hull  of  a  large  ship  looming 
above  them.  By  firing  his  pistol,  Mark  attracted  the  notice 
of  the  watch  on  deck;  his  signal  was  replied  to,  and  the 
next  moment  the  boat  was  alongside,  and  Mark,  clambering 
up  the  steep  side,  stood  on  the  quarter-deck. 


154  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

""Will  the  troops  not  land?"  said  Mark,  as  the  officers 
crowded  eagerly  around  him;  "is  the  expedition  aban- 
doned ?  " 

"Don't  you  think  the  hurricane  might  answer  the  question, 
young  man?  "  said  a  weather-beaten  officer,  who  appeared  in 
command;  "or  are  you  so  ignorant  of  naval  matters  as  to 
suppose  that  a  force  could  disembark  in  a  gale  like  this?" 

"It  might  scare  a  pleasure  party,"  said  Mark,  rudely; 
"but  for  men  who  have  come  to  give  and  get  hard  knocks, 
methinks  this  need  not  disconcert  them." 

"And  who  is  to  aid  us  if  we  land?  "  said  the  first  speaker. 
"What  forces  are  in  arms  to  join  us?  what  preparations 
for  ourselves?  Have  you  a  musket?  have  you  a  horse?  or 
do  you  yourself,  in  your  own  person,  represent  the  alliance 
we  seek  for?  " 

Mark  hung  down  his  head,  abashed  and  ashamed.  Too 
well  he  knew  how  treachery  had  sapped  the  foundation  of 
the  plot;  that,  betrayed  and  abandoned  by  their  chiefs,  the 
people  had  become  either  apathetic  or  terror-stricken,  and 
that,  if  a  blow  were  to  be  struck  for  Irish  independence, 
it  must  be  by  the  arm  of  the  stranger. 

"It  is  needless  to  waste  words,  sir,"  said  the  French 
captain,  for  such  he  was;  "'the  admiral  has  twice  made  the 
signal  to  stand  out  to  sea.  The  French  Republic  will  have 
suffered  loss  enough  in  some  of  the  finest  ships  of  her  navy, 
without  hazarding  fifteen  thousand  brave  fellows  upon  an 
exploit  so  hopeless." 

"The  captain  says  truly,"  interposed  another;  "Ireland 
is  not  ripe  for  such  an  enterprise.  There  may  be  courage 
enough  among  your  countrymen,  but  they  know  not  how  to 
act  together.     There's  no  slavery  like  dissension." 

"That  boat  will  be  swamped,"  said  the  officer  of  the 
watch,  as  he  pointed  to  the  fishing  craft,  which  still  held  on 
to  the  leeward  of  the  ship.  "If  you  are  going  back  to 
shore,  sir,  let  me  advise  you,  for  your  own  sake,  and  your 
comrades'  too,  to  lose  no  time  about  it." 

"Far  better  to  come  with  us,"  said  a  powerful-looking 
man  in  the  uniform  of  an  infantry  regiment;  "the  young 
gentleman  seems  inclined  to  see  service.  Ma  foi^  we 
seldom  lack  an  opportunity  of  showing  it." 


THE   GLEN  AND   THE   BAY.  155 

"I  will  never  go  back,"  said  Mark;  "I  Lave  looked  at 
my  country  for  the  last   time." 

With  many  a  welcome  speech  the  officers  pressed  round 
and  grasped  his  hands,  and  for  a  moment  all  their  mis- 
fortunes were  forgotten  in  the  joy  with  which  they  received 
their  new  comrade. 

"Who  will  be  my  banker  for  some  gold?"  said  Mark. 
*'Those  brave  fellows  have  risked  their  lives  for  me,  and 
I  have  nothing  but  thanks  to  give  them." 

"Let  this  go  to  the  expenses  of  the  expedition,"  said  the 
captain,  laughing,  as  he  threw  his  purse  to  Mark.  The 
young  man  leaned  over  the  bulwark  and  hailed  the  boat, 
and,  after  a  moment  of  great  difficulty,  one  of  the  fishermen 
reached  the  deck. 

"I  wish  to  bid  you  good-bye,  Tom,"  said  Mark,  as  he 
grasped  the  rough  hand  in  his.  "You  are  the  last  thing  I 
shall  see  of  my  country.  Farewell,  then;  but  remember 
that  however  deeply  wrongs  may  gall,  and  injuries  oppress 
you,  the  glory  of  resistance  is  too  dearly  bought  at  the  cost 
of  companionship  with  the  traitor  and  the  coward.  Good- 
bye forever!  "  He  pressed  the  purse  into  the  poor  fellow's 
hand ;  nor  was  it  without  a  struggle  he  could  compel  him 
to  accept  it.  A  few  minute?  after,  the  boat  was  cleaving 
her  way  through  the  dark  water,  her  prow  turned  to  the  land 
which  Mark  had  left  forever. 

Seated  on  the  deck,  silent  and  thoughtful,  Mark  seemed 
indifferent  to  the  terrible  storm,  whose  violence  increased 
with  every  moment,  and  as  the  vessel  tacked  beneath  the 
tall  cliffs,  when  every  heart  beat  anxiously,  and  every  eye 
was  fixed  on  the  stern  rocks  above  them,  his  glance  was 
calm,  and  his  pulse  was  tranquil ;  he  felt  as  though  fate  had 
done  her  worst,  and  that  the  future  had  no  heavier  blow  in 
store  for  him. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

THE     END. 

The  storm  of  that  eventful  night  is  treasured  among  the 
memories  of  the  peasantry  of  the  South.  None  living  had 
ever  witnessed  a  gale  of  such  violence,  —  none  since  have 
seen  a  hurricane  so  dreadful  and  enduring.  For  miles  along 
the  coast  the  scattered  spars  and  massive  timbers  told  of 
shipwreck  and  disasters,  while  inland,  uptorn  trees  and  fallen 
rocks  attested  its  power. 

The  old  castle  of  Carrignacurra  did  not  escape  the  gen- 
eral calamity.  The  massive  walls  that  had  resisted  for 
centuries  the  assaults  of  war  and  time,  were  shaken  to  their 
foundations ;  and  one  strong  square  tower,  the  ancient 
keep,  was  rent  by  lightning,  from  the  battlements  to  the 
base,  while  far  and  near  might  be  seen  fragments  of  timber, 
and  even  of  masonry,  hurled  from  their  places  by  the  storm. 
For  whole  days  after  the  gale  abated  the  air  resounded  with 
an  unceasing  din,  —  the  sound  of  the  distant  sea,  and  the 
roar  of  the  mountain  torrents,  as,  swollen  and  impetuous, 
they  tore  along. 

The  devastation  thus  wide-spread  seemed  not  to  have 
been  limited  to  the  mere  material  world,  but  to  have  ex- 
tended its  traces  over  man.  The  hurricane  was  recognized 
as  the  interposition  of  Heaven,  and  the  disaster  of  the 
French  fleet  looked  on  as  the  vengeance  of  the  Almighty. 
It  did  not  need  the  superstitious  character  of  the  Southern 
peasants'  mind  to  induce  this  belief;  the  circumstances  in 
all  their  detail  were  too  strongly  corroborative  not  to  enforce 
conviction  on  sterner  imaginations,  and  the  ver}^  escape  of 
the  French  ships  from  every  portion  of  our  Channel  fleet, 
which   at   first  was   deemed  a  favor   of  fortune,   was   now 


THE   END.  157 

regarded  as  pointing  out  the  more  signal  vengeance  of 
Heaven.  Dismay  and  terror  were  depicted  in  every  face ; 
the  awful  signs  of  the  gale  which  were  seen  on  every  side 
suggested  gloom  and  dread,  and  each  speculated  how  far  the 
anger  of  God  might  fall  upon  a  guilty  nation. 

There  was  no  reason  to  doubt  the  fact  that,  whatever 
the  ultimate  issue  of  the  struggle,  the  immediate  fate  of  the 
country  was  decided  on  that  night.  Had  the  French  fleet 
arrived  in  full  force,  and  landed  the  troops,  there  was  neither 
preparation  for  resistance,  nor  means  of  defence,  under- 
taken by  the  Government. 

How  far  the  peasantry  might  or  might  not  have  associated 
themselves  with  a  cause  to  which  the  Romish  clergy  were 
then  manifestly  averse,  may  be  a  matter  of  uncertainty; 
but  there  are  a  sufficient  number  in  every  land,  and  every 
age,  who  will  join  the  ranks  of  battle  with  no  other  prospect 
than  the  day  of  pillage  and  rapine.  Such  would  have  flocked 
around  the  tricolor  in  thousands,  and  meet  companions  such 
would  have  been  to  that  portion  of  the  invading  army  called 
the  ''Legion  des  Francs,"  —  a  battalion  consisting  of  lib- 
erated felons  and  galley-slaves ;  the  murderers  and  robbers 
of  France,  drilled,  armed,  and  disciplined  to  carry  liberty  to 
Ireland!  With  this  force,  and  a  company  of  the  "  Artil- 
lerie  Leg^re,"  Wolfe  Tone  proposed  to  land ;  and,  as  the 
expedition  had  manifestly  failed,  any  further  loss  would 
be  inconsiderable;  and,  as  for  the  "Legion,"  he  naively 
remarked,  "  The  Republic  would  be  well  rid  of  them." 

Let  us,  however,  turn  from  this  theme  to  the  characters 
of  our  tale,  of  which  a  few  words  only  remain  to  be  told. 
By  Terry,  who  made  his  escape  after  being  wounded  by  the 
dragoons,  was  the  first  news  brought  to  Carrignacurra  of 
Mark's  rencontre  with  the  dragoons ;  and  while  the  O'Dono- 
ghue  and  Kate  were  yet  speculating  in  terror  as  to  the  result, 
a  small  party  of  cavalry  were  seen  coming  up  the  causeway 
at  a  brisk  trot,  among  whom  rode  a  person  in  colored 
clothes. 

"  It  is  Mark,  — my  boy  is  taken  !  "  cried  the  old  man,  in 
a  burst  of  agony ;  and  he  buried  his  head  in  his  hands,  and 
sobbed  aloud.  Kate  never  spoke,  but  a  sick,  cold  faint- 
ness  crept  over  her,  and  she  stood  almost  breathless  with 


158  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

anxiety.  She  heard  the  horses  as  they  drew  up  at  the 
door,  but  had  not  strength  to  reach  the  window  and  look 
out.  The  bell  was  rung  violently,  —  every  clank  sent  a  pang 
to  her  bosom.  The  door  was  opened,  and  now  she  heard 
Kerry's  voice,  but  could  not  distinguish  the  words.  Then 
there  was  a  noise  as  of  some  one  dismounting,  and  the 
clatter  of  a  sabre  was  heard  along  the  flagged  hall.  This 
ceased,  and  she  could  recognize  Kerry's  step  as  he  came  up 
the  corridor  to  the  door  of  the  tower. 

''Come  in,"  cried  she  to  his  summons;  but  her  utmost 
effort  could  not  make  the  words  audible.  "  Come  in,"  said 
she  again. 

Kerry  heard  it  not,  but,  opening  the  door  cautiously,  he 
entered. 

"  'T  is  the  captain,  Miss  Kate,  wants  to  know  if  he  could 
see  the  master." 

"Yes,"  said  she,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 
"Who  is  with  him?     Is  there  a  prisoner  there?" 

"Faix,  there  is  then;  but  Captain  Travers  will  tell  you 
all  himself." 

"Captain  Travers!"  cried  Kate,  a  deep  flush  covering 
her  face. 

"  Yes,  madam,"  said  Frederick,  as  he  entered  at  the 
same  moment.  "I  am  but  too  happy  to  bear  pleasant 
tidings,  to  think  of  my  want  of  courtesy  in  intruding 
unannounced." 

''  Leave  the  room,  —  shut  the  door,  Kerry,"  said  Kate, 
as,  with  eyes  fixed  on  Travers,  she  waited  for  him  to 
continue. 

' '  Your  cousin  is  safe.  Miss  O'Donoghue,  —  he  has  reached 
the  fleet,  and  is  already  on  his  way  to  France." 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Kate,  fervently,  as  she  fell  upon 
her  uncle's  shoulders,  and  whispered  the  tidings  into  his 
ear. 

The  old  man  looked  up,  and  stared  wildly  around  him. 

' '  Where 's  Mark,  my  love,  —  w^here  did  you  say  he  was  ?  " 

"  He 's  safe,  uncle,  —  he  's  on  board  of  a  French  ship,  and 
bound  for  France,  beyond  the  reach  of  danger." 

' '  For  France !  And  has  he  left  me,  —  has  he  deserted 
his  old  father?" 


THE   END.  159 

"His  life  was  la  peril,  sir,"  whispered  Kate,  who,  stung 
by  the  old  man's  selfishness,  spoke  almost  angrily. 

"  My  boy  has  abandoned  me,"  muttered  the  O'Donoghue. 
The  one  idea,  absorbing  all  others,  occupied  his  mind,  and 
left  him  deaf  to  every  explanation  or  remonstrance. 

"  You  are  right.  Miss  O'Donoghue,"  said  Travers,  gently; 
"his  danger  was  most  imminent.  The  evidence  against 
him  was  conclusive  and  complete ;  and  although  one  of 
the  principal  witnesses  could  not  have  appeared,  Lauty 
Lawler  —  " 

"  And  was  he  an  informer?  " 

"He  was,  madam:  but  amid  the  mass  of  treachery  he 
has  met  a  just  fate.  Barrington,  determined  to  punish  the 
fellow,  has  come  forward  and  given  himself  up,  but  with 
such  evidence  of  the  horse-dealer's  guilt  that  his  conviction 
is  certain.  The  sums  he  received  from  France  are  all 
proved  under  his  own  hand,  and  now  that  Hemsworth  is  no 
more,  and  Lawler's  treachery  has  no  patron,  his  case  has 
little  hope.  He  is  at  this  moment  my  prisoner;  we  took 
him  on  the  mountain  where  he  had  gone  with  a  party  to 
secure  Mr.  Mark  O'Donoghue,  for  whose  capture  a  large 
reward  was  offered." 

As  Kate  listened  to  this  recital,  delivered  in  a  tone  which 
showed  the  contempt  the  speaker  entertained  for  an  enter- 
prise undertaken  by  such  actors,  her  own  indignant  pride 
revolted  at  the  baseness  of  those  with  whom  her  cousin  was 
associated. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  at  length,  and  speaking  unconsciously 
aloud,  "  no  cause  could  prosper  with  supporters  like  these. 
There  must  be  rottenness  in  the  confederacy  that  links  such 
agencies  as  these  together.  And  had  my  cousin  not  one 
friend  ?  —  was  there  not  one  to  wring  his  hand  at  parting  ?  " 
said  she,  hurriedly,  changing  the  theme  of  her  thoughts. 

"  There  was  one,"  said  Travers,  modestly.  "  Mr.  O'Don- 
oghue was  noble-hearted  enough,  even  in  the  hour  of  calam- 
ity, to  forget  an  ancient  grudge,  and  to  call  me  his  friend. 
He  did  more,  —  he  wished  we  had  been  friends  for  many  a 
day  before." 

"Would  that  you  had,"  said  Kate,  as  the  tears  burst 
forth,  and  ran  down  her  cheeks. 


160  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"And  we  might  have  been  such,"  continued  Travers, 
"  had  not  deceit  and  malevolence  sowed  discord  between  our 
families.  You  know  not,  Miss  O'Donoghue,  how  deeply  this 
treachery  worked,  and  how  artfully  its  plans  were  conceived. 
The  very  hopes  whose  disappointment  has  darkened  my  life, 
were  fed  and  fostered  by  him  who  knew  how  little  reason  I 
had  to  indulge  them.  Forgive  me,  I  pray,  if  I  allude  to  a 
subject  I  ought  never  to  recall.  It  was  Hemsworth  per- 
suaded me  that  my  suit  would  not  prove  unsuccessful ;  it 
was  by  his  advice  and  counsel  I  risked  the  avowal  which  has 
cost  me  the  happiness  of  my  future  life.  I  will  speak  of 
this  no  more,"  said  Travers,  who  saw  in  the  deep  blush  that 
covered  Kate's  features  the  distress  the  theme  occasioned 
her.  "  It  was  a  selfish  thought  that  prompted  me  to  excuse 
my  hardihood  at  the  cost  of  your  feelings." 

"  I  will  not  let  you  speak  thus,  sir,"  said  Kate,  in  a  voice 
faint  from  excessive  emotion.  "  There  was  no  such  hardi- 
hood in  one  favored  by  every  gift  of  fortune  stooping  to  one 
humble  as  I  am  ;  but  there  w^ere  disparities  wider  than  those 
of  rank  between  us,  and  if  I  can  now  see  how  greatly  these 
were  exaggerated  by  the  falsehood  and  treachery  of  others, 
yet  I  know  that  our  opinions  are  too  wide  apart  to  make 
agreement  aught  else  than  a  compromise  between  us." 

"Might  not  time  soften,  if  not  obliterate,  such  differ- 
ences ?  "  whispered  Travers,  timidly. 

"  It  could  not  with  me,"  said  Kate,  resolutely.  "  This  is 
the  losing  side  ever,  and  my  nature  is  a  stubborn  one,  — it 
has  no  sympathies  save  with  those  in  misfortune.  But  we 
can  be  friends,"  said  she,  extending  her  hand  frankly 
towards  him,  —  "  friends  firm  and  true,  not  the  less  strong 
in  regard  because  our  affections  have  not  overcome  our 
convictions." 

"Do  not  speak  so  decisively,  TMiss  O'Donoghue,"  said 
Travers,  as  his  lip  trembled  with  strong  emotion;  "even  at 
this  moment  how  much  has  misrepresentation  clouded  our 
knowledge  of  each  other.  Let  time,  I  entreat  of  you,  dissi- 
pate these  false  impressions,  or  give  me,  at  least,  the  oppor- 
tunity of  becoming  more  worthy  of  your  esteem." 

"While  I  should  become  less  so,"  interrupted  Kate, 
rapidly.     ' '  No,  no  ;  my  duties  are  here  ;  "  and  she  pointed 


THE  END.  161 

to  the  old  man,  who,  with  an  expression  of  stupid  fatuity, 
sat  with  his  hands  clasped,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy. 
**  Do  not  make  me  less  equal  to  my  task  by  calling  on  me 
for  such  a  pledge.  Besides,"  added  she,  with  a  smile,  *'  you 
are  too  truly  English  to  suggest  a  divided  allegiance  ;  we  are 
friends,  but  we  can  never  be  more." 

Travers  pressed  the  white  hand  to  his  lips  without  a  word, 
and  the  moment  after  his  horse  was  heard  descending  the 
causeway,  as  with  desperate  speed  he  hurried  from  the  spot 
so  fatal  to  all  his  hopes. 

Scarcely  had  Frederick  left  the  castle,  when  a  chaise  and 
four,  urged  to  the  utmost  speed,  dashed  up  to  the  door,  and 
Sir  Archy,  followed  by  Herbert,  jumped  out.  The  old  man, 
travel-stained  and  splashed,  held  an  open  paper  in  his  hand, 
and  cried  aloud,  as  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  — 

''He's  pardoned,  he's  pardoned,  —  a  free  pardon  to 
Mark !  " 

"He's  gone,  he's  away  to  France,"  said  Kate,  as,  fearing 
to  awaken  the  O'Donoghue  to  any  exertion  of  intelligence, 
she  pointed  cautiously  towards  him. 

"All  the  better,  my  sweet  lassie,"  cried  M'Nab,  folding 
her  in  his  arms ;  "his  arm  will  not  be  the  less  bold  in  battle 
because  no  unforgiven  treason  weighs  upon  his  heart.  But, 
my  brother,  what  ails  him?  —  he  does  not  seem  to  notice 
me." 

"  He  is  ill  —  my  father  is  ill,"  said  Herbert,  with  a  terri- 
fied accent. 

"He  is  worse,"  whispered  M'Nab  to  himself,  as  passing 
his  hand  within  the  waistcoat,  he  laid  it  on  his  heart. 

It  was  so.  The  courage  that  withstood  every  assault  of 
evil  fortune  —  every  calamity  which  poverty  and  distress  can 
bring  down  —  failed  at  last.  The  strong  heart  was  broken, 
—  the  O'Donoghue  was  dead. 


"We  will  once  more  ask  our  readers  to  accompany  us  to  the 
glen,  the  scene  of  our  story.  It  was  of  an  evening,  calm 
and  tranquil  as  that  on  which  our  tale  opened,  on  a  day  in 

VOL.  II.  — 11 


162  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

August,  in  the  year  1815,  that  two  travellers,  leaving  the 
postilion  of  their  carriage  to  refresh  his  horses,  advanced 
alone  and  on  foot  for  above  a  mile  into  this  tranquil  valley. 
The  air  had  all  that  deathlike  stillness  so  characteristic  of 
autumn,  while  over  the  mountains  and  the  lake  the  same 
rich  mellow  light  was  shed.  As  the  travellers  proceeded 
slowly,  they  stopped  from  time  to  time,  and  gazed  on  the 
scene ;  and  although  their  looks  met,  and  glance  seemed  to 
answer  glance,  they  neither  of  them  spoke.  From  their 
appearance,  it  might  have  been  conjectured  that  they  were 
foreigners.  The  man,  bronzed  by  weather  and  exposure, 
possessed  features  which,  in  all  their  sternness,  were  yet 
eminently  handsome.  He  wore  a  short,  thick  moustache,  but 
the  armless  sleeve  of  his  coat,  fastened  on  the  bosom,  was  a 
sign  still  more  indisputable  than  even  his  port  and  bearing 
that  he  was  a  soldier.  His  companion  was  a  lady  in  the 
very  pride  and  bloom  of  beauty,  but  her  dress  more  remark- 
ably than  his  betrayed  the  foreigner.  In  the  rapid  look  she 
turned  from  the  bold  scenery  around  them  to  the  face  of  him 
at  whose  side  she  walked,  one  might  read  either  a  direct 
appeal  to  memory,  or  the  expression  of  wonder  and  admira- 
tion of  the  spot.  Too  much  engrossed  by  his  own  thoughts, 
or  too  deepl}^  occupied  by  the  scene  before  him,  the  man 
moved  on,  until  at  last  he  came  in  front  of  a  low  ruined 
wall,  beneath  a  tall  and  overhanging  cliff.  He  stopped  for 
some  seconds,  and  gazed  at  this  with  such  intentness  as  pre- 
vented him  from  noticing  the  figure  of  a  beggar,  who,  in  all 
the  semblance  of  extreme  poverty,  sat  crouching  among  the 
ruins.  She  was  an  old,  or  at  least  seemed  a  very  old 
woman.  Her  hair,  uncovered  by  cap  or  hood,  was  white  as 
snow,  but  her  features  still  preserved  an  expression  of  quick 
intelligence,  as,  lifting  her  head  from  the  attitude  of  moping 
thought,  she  fixed  her  eyes  steadfastly  on  the  travellers. 

"  Give  her  something,  vion  cher^''  said  the  lad}^  to  her 
companion  in  French ;  but  the  request  was  twice  made 
before  he  seemed  conscious  of  it.  The  woman,  meanwhile, 
sat  still,  and  neither  made  any  demand  for  charity  nor 
appeal  to  their  compassion. 

"This  is  Glenflesk,  my  good  woman?"  said  he,  at  length, 
with  the  intonation  of  a  forei«:n  accent  on  the  words. 


THE   END. 


16S 


The  woman  nodded  assentingly,  but  made  no  reply. 

"Whose  estate  is  all  this  here?"  said  he,  pointing  with 
his  hand  to  either  side  of  the  valley. 

"  Sorra  one  o'  me  knows  whose  it  is,"  said  the  woman, 
in  a  voice  of  evident  displeasure.  "  AYhen  I  was  a  child 
it  was  the  O'Donoghues* ;  but  they  are  dead  and  gone  now, 
—  I  don't  know  whose  it  is." 


*'  And  the  O'Donoghues  are  dead  and  gone,  you  say? 
What  became  of  the  last  of  them?  —  What  was  his  fate?" 

'*  Is  it  the  one  that  turned  Protestant,  you  mean?  "  said 
the  woman,  as  an  expression  of  fiendish  malignity  shot 
beneath  her  dark  brows.  "  He  was  the  only  one  that  ever 
prospered,  —  because  he  was  a  heretic,  maybe." 

'^  But  how  did  he  prosper?  "  said  the  stranger. 

"Didn't  he  marry  the  daughter  of  the  rich  Englishman, 
that  lived  there  beyant?  and  was  n't  he  a  member  of  Parli- 
mint?  and  sure  they  tell  me  that  he  went  out  beyond  the 
says  to  be  a  judge  somewhere  in  foreign  parts,  —  in  India, 
I  believe." 

"  And  who  lives  in  the  old  castle  of  the  family?  " 


164  THE  O'DONOGHUE. 

"  The  crows  and  the  owls  lives  in  it  now,"  said  the  woman, 
with  a  grating  laugh,  —  "the  same  way  as  the  weasels  and 
the  rats  burrow  in  my  own  little  place  here.  Ay,  you  may 
stare  and  wonder,  but  here,  where  you  see  me  sit,  among 
these  old  stones  and  black  timbers,  was  my  own  comfortable 
borne,  — the  house  I  was  born  and  reared  in,  and  the  hearth 
I  sat  by  when  I  was  a  child." 

The  man  whispered  a  few  words  to  his  companion  in  a 
deep,  low  voice.  She  started,  and  was  about  to  speak, 
when  he  stopped  her,  saying,  "  Nay,  nay,  it  is  better  not;  " 
then,  turning  to  the  woman,  asked,  "And  were  there,  then, 
oo  others,  whose  fortunes  you  remember?" 

"It  is  little  worth  while  remembering  them,"  said  the 
crone,  whose  own  misfortunes  shed  bitterness  over  all  the 
memory  of  others.  "  There  was  an  old  Scotchman  that 
lived  there  long  after  the  others  were  gone,  and  when  the 
ciece  w^ent  back  to  the  nunnery  in  France  he  stayed  there 
still  alone  b}^  himself.  The  people  used  to  see  him  settling 
the  room,  and  putting  books  here,  and  papers  there,  and 
making  all  ready  agin  she  came  back,  —  and  that 's  the  way 
he  spent  his  time  to  the  day  of  his  death.  Don't  cry,  my 
iady ;  he  was  a  hard-hearted  old  man,  and  it  is  n't  eyes  like 
yours  should  weep  tears  for  him ;  if  you  want  to  pity  any 
one,  '  pity  the  poor,  that's  houseless  and  friendless.'  " 

"  And  the  Lodge,"  said  the  stranger,  —  "is  not  that  the 
name  they  gave  the  pretty  house  beside  the  lake  ?  " 

" 'T  is  n't  a  pretty  house  now,  then,"  said  the  hag, 
laughing.     "  It 's  a  ruin  like  the  rest." 

"How  is  that?  —  does  the  Englishman  never  come  to 
it?  " 

"Why  should  he  come  to  it?  Sure  it's  in  law  ever  since 
that  black-hearted  villain  Hemsworth  was  killed.  Nobody 
knows  who  owns  it,  and  they  say  it  will  never  be  found  out ; 
but,"  said  she,  rising  and  gathering  her  cloak  around  her  as 
she  prepared  to  move  away,  "  there  's  neither  luck  nor  grace 
upon  the  spot.  God  Almighty  made  it  beautiful  and  lovely 
to  look  upon,  but  man  and  man's  wickedness  brought  a  curse 
down  upon  it." 

The  man  drew  his  purse  forth,  and  while  endeavoring  to 
take  some  pieces  of  money  from  it  by  the  aid  of  his  single 


THE   END.  165 

remaining  hand,  she  turned  abruptly  about,  and,  staring 
him  steadfastly  in  the  face,  said,  — 

''  I  '11  not  take  your  money,  —  't  is  n't  money  will  serve  me 
now ;  them  that 's  poor  themselves  will  never  see  me  in 
want" 

''  Stop  a  moment,"  said  the  stranger,  *'  I  have  a  claim 
on  you." 

**  That  you  have  n't,"  said  the  woman,  sternly.  "  I  know 
you  well,  Mark  O'Donoghue,  —  ay,  and  your  wife,  Misa 
Kate  there ;  but  it  is  n't  by  a  purse  full  of  gold  you  '11  ever 
make  up  for  desarting  the  cause  of  ould  Ireland." 

'^  Don't  be  angry  with  her,"  whispered  a  low,  mild  voice 
behind.  He  turned,  and  saw  a  very  old  man  dressed  io 
black,  and  with  all  the  semblance  of  a  priest.  ''  Don't  be 
angry  with  her,  su' ;  poor  Mary's  senses  are  often  wander- 
ing;  and,"  added  he,  with  a  sigh,  *'  she  has  met  sore  trials, 
and  may  well  be  pardoned  if,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  grief, 
she  looks  at  the  world  with  little  favor  or  forgiveness.  She 
has  mistaken  you  for  another,  and  hence  the  source  of  her 
anger." 


END  OF  THE  o'dONOGHUB. 


ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 


TO  MY   CHILDREN, 


My  dear  Children,  —  There  are  few  things  less  likely  than 
that  it  will  ever  be  your  lot  to  exercise  any  of  the  rights  or  privi- 
leges of  landed  property.  It  may  chance,  however,  that  even  in 
your  humble  sphere,  there  may  be  those  who  shall  look  up  to  you 
for  support,  and  be,  in  some  wise,  dependent  on  your  will ;  if  so, 
pray  let  this  little  story  have  its  lesson  in  your  hearts,  —  think  that 
when  I  wrote  it,  I  desired  to  inculcate  the  truth,  that  prosperity  has 
as  many  duties  as  adversity  has  sorrows  ;  that  those  to  whom  Provi- 
dence has  accorded  many  blessings  are  but  the  stewards  of  His 
bounty  to  the  poor ;  and  that  the  neglect  of  an  obligation  so  sacred 
as  this  charity  is  a  grievous  wrong,  and  may  be  the  origin  of  evils 
for  which  all  your  efforts  to  do  good  through  life  will  be  but  a  poor 
atonement. 

Your  affectionate  father, 

CHARLES  LEVER. 
Templeogue,  March  1,  1845. 


It  was  on  the  l6th  of  March,  the  eve  of  St.  Patrick,  not 
quite  twenty  years  ago,  that  a  little  village  on  the  bank  of 
Lough  Corrib  was  celebrating  in  its  annual  fair  "the  holy 
times,"  devoting  one  day  to  every  species  of  enjoyment 
and  pleasure,  and  on  the  next,  by  practising  prayers  and 
penance  of  various  kinds,  as  it  were  to  prepare  their  minds 
to  resume  their  worldly  duties  in  a  frame  of  thought  more 
seemly  and  becoming. 

If  a  great  and  wealthy  man  might  smile  at  the  humble 
preparations  for  pleasure  displayed  on  this  occasion,  he 
could  scarcely  scoff  at  the  scene  which  surrounded  them. 
The  wide  valley,  encircled  by  lofty  mountains,  whose  swell- 
ing outlines  were  tracked  against  the  blue  sky,  or  mingled 
gracefully  with  clouds,  whose  forms  were  little  less  fantas- 
tic and  wild.  The  broad  lake,  stretching  away  into  the 
distance,  and  either  lost  among  the  mountain  passes,  or 
contracting  as  it  approached  the  ancient  city  of  Galway : 
a  few,  and  but  very  few,  islands  marked  its  surface,  and 
these  rugged  and  rocky ;  on  one  alone  a  human  ti-ace  was 


172  ST.  PATRICK'S   EVE. 

seen,  —  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  church:  it  was  a  mere 
gable  now,  but  you  could  still  track  out  the  humble  limits 
it  had  occupied,  —  scarce  space  sufficient  for  twenty  per- 
sons ;  such  were  once,  doubtless,  the  full  number  of  con- 
verts to  the  faith  who  frequented  there.  There  was  a  wild 
and  savage  grandeur  in  the  whole :  the  very  aspect  of  the 
mountains  proclaimed  desolation,  and  seemed  to  frown  de- 
fiance at  the  efforts  of  man  to  subdue  them  to  his  use; 
and  even  the  herds  of  wild  cattle  seemed  to  stray  with 
caution  among  the  cliffs  and  precipices  of  this  dreary 
region.  Lower  down,  however,  and  as  if  in  compensation 
of  the  infertile  tract  above,  the  valley  was  marked  by  patches 
of  tillage  and  grassland,  and  studded  with  cottages ;  which, 
if  presenting  at  a  nearer  inspection  indubitable  signs  of 
poverty,  yet  to  the  distant  eye  bespoke  something  of  ru- 
ral comfort,  nestling  as  they  often  did  beneath  some  large 
rock,  and  sheltered  by  the  great  turf-stack,  which  even 
the  poorest  possessed.  Many  streams  wound  their  course 
through  this  valley ;  along  whose  borders,  amid  a  pasture 
brighter  than  the  emerald,  the  cattle  grazed,  and  there, 
from  time  to  time,  some  peasant  child  sat  fishing  as  he 
watched  the  herd. 

Shut  in  by  lake  and  mountain,  this  seemed  a  little  spot 
apart  from  all  the  world;  and  so,  indeed,  its  inhabitants 
found  it.  They  were  a  poor  but  not  unhappy  race  of 
people,  whose  humble  lives  had  taught  them  nothing  of 
the  comforts  and  pleasures  of  richer  communities.  Poverty 
had,  from  habit,  no  terrors  for  them  ;  short  of  actual  want, 
they  never  felt  its  pressure  heavily. 

Such  were  they  who  now  were  assembled  to  celebrate  the 
festival  of  their  patron  saint.  It  was  drawing  towards  even- 
ing ;  the  sun  was  already  low,  and  the  red  glare  that  shone 
from  behind  the  mountains  showed  that  he  was  near  his  set- 
ting. The  business  of  the  fair  was  almost  concluded  ;  the  little 
traffic  so  remote  a  region  could  supply,  the  barter  of  a  few 
sheep,  the  sale  of  a  heifer,  a  mountain  pony,  or  a  flock  of  goats, 
had  all  passed  off,  and  now  the  pleasures  of  the  occasion  were 
about  to  succeed.  The  votaries  to  amusement,  as  if  annoyed  at 
the  protracted  dealings  of  the  more  worldly-minded,  were  some- 


Q 


Le<i^'^c£-< 


OF 
CALIFOJ 


THE  FIRST  ERA. 


173 


what  rudely  driving  away  the  cattle  that  still  continued  to  linger 
about ;  and  pigs  and  poultry  were  beginning  to  discover  that 


of  the  bagpipe  might  now  be  heard,  accompanied  by  the  dull 
shuffling  tramp  of  heavily  shod  feet. 

Various  shows  and  exhibitions  were  also  in  preparation, 


174  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

and  singular  announcements  were  made  by  gentlemen  in  a 
mingled  costume  of  Turk  and  Thimble-rigger,  of  "  wonder- 
ful calves  with  two  heads;"  "six-legged  pigs;"  and  an 
'*  infant  of  two  years  old  that  could  drink  a  quart  of  spirits 
at  a  draught,  if  a  respectable  company  were  assembled 
to  witness  it,"  —  a  feat  which,  for  the  honor  of  young 
Ireland,  it  should  be  added,  was  ever  postponed  from  a 
deficiency  in  the  annexed  condition.  Then  there  were 
"restaurants"  on  a  scale  of  the  most  primitive  simplicity, 
where  boiled  beef,  or  "  spoleen,"  was  sold  from  a  huge  pot, 
suspended  over  a  fire  in  the  open  air,  and  which  was  invari- 
ably surrounded  by  a  gourmand  party  of  both  sexes ;  gin- 
gerbread and  cakes  of  every  fashion  and  evei-y  degree  of 
indigestion  also  abounded ;  while  jugs  and  kegs  flanked  the 
entrance  to  each  tent,  reeking  with  a  most  unmistakable 
odor  of  that  prime  promoter  of  native  drollery  and  fun,  — 
poteen.  All  was  stir,  movement,  and  bustle ;  old  friends, 
separated  since  the  last  occasion  of  a  similar  festivity,  were 
embracing  cordially,  the  men  kissing  with  an  affectionate 
warmth  no  German  ever  equalled;  pledges  of  love  and 
friendship  were  taken  in  brimming  glasses  by  many,  who 
were  perhaps  to  renew  the  opportunity  for  such  testimonies 
hereafter,  by  a  fight  that  very  evening ;  contracts  ratified 
by  whiskey,  until  that  moment  not  deemed  binding ;  and 
courtships,  prosecuted  with  hopes  which  the  whole  3'ear 
previous  had  never  suggested ;  kind  speeches  and  words  of 
welcome  went  round ;  while  here  and  there  some  closely 
gathered  heads  and  scowling  glances  gave  token  that  other 
scores  were  to  be  acquitted  on  that  night  than  merely  those 
of  commerce ;  and  in  the  firmly  knitted  brow  and  more 
firmly  grasped  blackthorn  a  practised  observer  could  foresee 
that  some  heads  were  to  carry  away  deeper  marks  of  that 
meeting  than  simple  memory  can  impress ;  —  and  thus,  in 
this  wild  sequestered  spot,  human  passions  were  as  rife  as 
in  the  most  busy  communities  of  pampered  civilization. 
Love,  hate,  and  hope,  charity,  fear,  forgiveness,  and  malice ; 
long-smouldering  revenge,  long-subdued  affection ;  hearts 
pining  beneath  daily  drudgery,  suddenly  awakened  to  a 
burst  of  pleasure  and  a  renewal  of  happiness  in  the  sight 
of  old  friends,  for  many  a  day  lost  sight  of ;  words  of  good 


THE  FIRST  ERA.  I75 

cheer,  half  mutterings  of  menace;  the  whispered  syllables 
of  love,  the  deeply  uttered  tones  of  vengeance  ;  and  amid 
all,  the  careless  reckless  glee  of  those  who  appeared  to  feel 
the  hour  one  snatched  from  the  grasp  of  misery  and  devoted 
to  the  very  abandonment  of  pleasure.  It  seemed  in  vain 
that  want  and  poverty  had  shed  their  chilling  influence  over 
hearts  like  these.  The  snow-drift  and  the  storm  might 
penetrate  their  frail  dwellings ;  the  winter  might  blast,  the 
hurricane  might  scatter  their  humble  hoardings  ;  but  still 
the  bold  high-beating  spirit  that  lived  within  beamed  on 
throughout  every  trial ;  and  now,  in  the  hour  of  long-sought 
enjoyment,  blazed  forth  in  a  flame  of  joy  that  was  all  but 
frantic. 

The  step  that  but  yesterday  fell  wearily  upon  the  ground, 
now  smote  the  earth  with  a  proud  beat,  that  told  of  man- 
hood's daring ;  the  voices  were  high,  the  eyes  were  flashing  ; 
long  pent-up  emotions  of  every  shade  and  complexion  were 
there  ;  and  it  seemed  a  season  where  none  should  wear  dis- 
guise, but  stand  forth  in  all  the  fearlessness  of  avowed 
resolve  ;  and  in  the  heart-home  looks  of  love,  as  well  as  in 
the  fiery  glances  of  hatred,  none  practised  concealment. 
Here  went  one  with  his  arm  round  his  sweetheart's  waist,  — 
an  evidence  of  accepted  affection  none  dared  even  to  stare 
at ;  there  went  another,  the  skirt  of  his  long  loose  coat 
thrown  over  his  arm,  in  whose  hand  a  stick  was  brandished, 
—  his  gesture,  even  without  his  wild  hurroo !  an  open  dec- 
laration of  battle,  a  challenge  to  all  who  liked  it.  Mothers 
were  met  in  close  conclave,  interchanging  family  secrets  and 
cares;  and  daughters  half  conscious  of  the  parts  they  them- 
selves were  playing  in  the  converse,  passed  looks  of  sly 
intelligence  to  each  other.  And  beggars  were  there  too,  — 
beggars  of  a  class  which  even  the  eastern  Dervish  can 
scarcely  vie  with  :  cripples  brought  many  a  mile  away  from 
their  mountain-homes  to  extort  charity  by  exhibitions  of 
dreadful  deformity;  the  halt,  the  blind,  the  muttering  idiot, 
the  moping  melancholy  mad,  mixed  up  with  strange  and 
motley  figures  in  patched  uniforms  and  rags,  —  some  amus- 
ing the  crowd  by  their  drolleries,  some  singing  a  popular 
ballad  of  the  time,  —  while  through  all,  at  every  turn  and 
every  corner,  one  huge  fellow,  without  legs,  rode  upon  au 


176  ST.  PATRICK'S   EVE. 

ass,  his  wide  chest  ornamented  b}^  a  picture  of  himself,  and 
a  paragraph  setting  forth  his  infirmities.  He,  with  a  voice 
deeper  than  a  bassoon,  bellowed  forth  his  prayer  for  alms, 
and  seemed  to  monopolize  far  more  than  his  proportion  of 
charity,  doubtless  owing  to  the  more  artistic  development 
to  which  he  had  brought  his  profession:  "  De  prayers  of 
de  holy  Joseph  be  an  yez,  and  relieve  de  maimed  ;  de  prayers 
and  blessin's  of  all  de  saints  on  dem  that  assists  de  suf- 
ferin' !  "  And  there  were  pilgrims,  some  with  heads  vener- 
able enough  for  the  canvas  of  an  old  master,  with  flowing 
beards,  and  relics  hung  round  their  necks,  objects  of  worship 
which  failed  not  to  create  sentiments  of  devotion  in  the 
passers-by.  But  among  these  many  sights  and  sounds, 
each  calculated  to  appeal  to  different  classes  and  ages  of 
the  motley  mass,  one  object  appeared  to  engross  a  more 
than  ordinary  share  of  attention  ;  and  although  certainly  not 
of  a  nature  to  draw  marked  notice  elsewhere,  was  here  suffi- 
ciently strange  and  uncommon  to  become  actually  a  spectacle. 
This  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  an  English  groom,  who, 
mounted  upon  a  thoroughbred  horse,  led  another  by  the 
bridle,  and  slowly  paraded  backwards  and  forwards,  in 
attendance  on  his  master. 

*' Them's  the  iligant  bastes.  Darby,"  said  one  of  the 
bystanders,  as  the  horses  moved  past.  "A  finer  pair  than 
that  I  never  seen." 

"They're  beauties,  and  no  denying  it,"  said  the  other; 
"and  they've  skins  like  a  looking-glass." 

"  Arrah,  botheration  t'  yez  !  what  are  ye  saying  about 
their  skins?"  cried  a  third,  whose  dress  and  manner  be- 
tokened one  of  the  rank  of  a  small  farmer.  "  'T  is  the 
breeding  that 's  in  'em  ;  that 's  the  raal  beauty.  Only  look 
at  theif-  pasterns;  and  see  how  fine  they  run  off  over  the 
quarter." 

"Which  is  the  best  now,  Phil?"  said  another,  addressing 
the  last  speaker  with  a  tone  of  some  deference. 

"  The  gray  horse  is  worth  two  of  the  dark  chestnut," 
replied  Phil,  oracularly. 

"  Is  he,  then?  "  cried  two  or  three,  in  a  breath.  "  Why  is 
that,  Phil?" 

"Can't  you  perceive  the  signs  of  blood  about  the  ears? 
They  're  long,  and  coming  to  a  point  —  " 


THE   FIRST  ERA. 


177 


"  You  're  wrong  this  time,  iny  friend,"  said  a  sharp  voice, 
with  an  accent  which  in  Ireland  would  be  called  English. 
"  You  may  be  an  excellent  judge  of  an  ass,  but  the  horse 
you  speak  of  as  the  best  is  not  worth  a  fourth  part  of  the 
value  of  the  other."  And  so  sajdng,  a  young  and  handsome 
man,  attired  in  a  riding-costume,  brushed  somewhat  rudely 
through  the  crowd,  and,  seizing  the  rein  of  the  led  horse, 
vaulted  lightly  into  the  saddle  and  rode  off,  leaving  Phil  to 


the  mockery  and  laughter  of  the  crowd,  whose  reverence  for 
the  opinion  of  a  gentleman  was  only  beneath  that  they 
accorded  to  the  priest  himself. 

*' Faix,  ye  got  it  there,  Phil!"  '''Tis  down  on  ye  he 
was  that  time !  "  "  Musha,  but  ye  may  well  get  red  in  the 
face !  " 

Such  and  such-like  were  the  comments  on  one  who  but 
a  moment  before  was  rather  a  popular  candidate  for  public 
Jionors. 

VOL.    II,  —  12 


178  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

"  Who  is  he,  then,  at  all?  "  said  one  among  the  rest,  and 
who  had  come  up  too  late  to  witness  the  scene. 

*''Tis  the  5'ouug  Mr.  Leslie,  the  landlord's  son,  that's 
come  over  to  fish  the  lakes,"  replied  an  old  man,  reverentially. 

*'  Begorra,  he  's  no  landlord  of  mine,  anyhow,"  said  Phil, 
now  speaking  for  the  first  time.  "I  hould  under  Mister 
Martin,  and  his  family  was  here  before  the  Leslies  was  heard 
of."  These  words  were  said  with  a  certain  air  of  defiance, 
and  a  turn  of  the  head  around  him,  as  though  to  imply  that 
if  any  one  would  gainsay  the  opinion,  he  was  ready  to  stand 
by  and  maintain  it.  Happily  for  the  peace  of  the  particular 
moment,  the  crowd  were  nearly  all  Martins,  and  so  a  simple 
buzz  of  approbation  followed  this  announcement.  Nor  did 
their  attention  dwell  much  longer  on  the  matter,  as  most 
were  already  occupied  in  watching  the  progress  of  the  young 
man,  who  at  a  fast  swinging  gallop  had  taken  to  the  fields 
beside  the  lake,  and  was  now  seen  flying  in  succession  over 
each  dike  and  wall  before  him,  followed  by  his  groom. 
The  Irish  passion  for  feats  of  horsemanship  made  this  the 
most  fascinating  attraction  of  the  fair ;  and  already  opinions 
ran  high  among  the  crowd  that  it  was  a  race  between  the 
two  horses,  and  more  than  one  maintained  that  "  the  little 
chap  with  the  belt"  was  the  better  horseman  of  the  two. 
At  last,  having  made  a  wide  circuit  of  the  village  and  the 
green,  the  riders  were  seen  slowly  moving  down,  as  if  return- 
ing to  the  fair. 

There  is  no  country  where  mauty  sports  and  daring  exer- 
cises are  held  in  higher  repute  than  Ireland.  The  chivalry 
that  has  died  out  in  richer  lands  still  reigns  there ;  and  the 
full  meed  of  approbation  will  ever  be  his  who  can  combine 
address  and  courage  before  an  Irish  crowd.  It  is  needless 
to  say,  then,  that  many  a  word  of  praise  and  commendation 
was  bestowed  on  young  Leslie.  His  handsome  features, 
his  slight  but  well-formed  figure,  every  particular  of  his 
dress  and  gesture,  had  found  an  advocate  and  an  admirer ; 
and  while  some  were  lavish  in  their  epithets  on  the  perfection 
of  his  horsemanship,  others  who  had  seen  him  on  foot  as- 
serted "that  it  was  then  he  looked  well  entirely."  There 
is  a  kind  of  epidemic  character  pertaining  to  praise.  The 
snow-ball  gathers  not  faster  by  rolling  than  do  the  words  of 


THE  FIRST  ERA. 


179 


eulogy  and  approbation ;  and  so  now  many  recited  little 
anecdotes  of  the  youth's  father,  to  show  that  he  was  a  very 
pattern  of  landlords  and  country  gentlemen,  and  had  only 
one  fault  in  life,  —  that  he  never  lived  among  his  tenantry. 

"'Tis  the  first  time  I  ever  set  eyes  on  him,"  cried  one, 
"and  I  hould  my  little  place  under  him  twenty-three  years 
come  Michaelmas." 

"See  now  then,  Barney,"  cried  another,  "I'd  rather  have 


a  hard  man  that  would  stay  here  among  us  than  the  finest 
landlord  ever  was  seen  that  would  be  away  from  us.  And 
what 's  the  use  of  compassion  and  pity  when  the  say  would 
be  between  us?     'Tis  the  agent  we  have  to  look  to." 

"Agent!  'Tis  wishing  them,  I  am,  the  same  agents! 
Them  's  the  boys  has  no  marcy  for  a  poor  man ;  I  'm  tould 
now, "  —  and  here  the  speaker  assumed  a  tone  of  oracular 
seriousness  that  drew  several  listeners  towards  him,  —  "I'm 
tould  now,  the  agents  get  a  guinea  for  every  man,  woman, 


180  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

and  child  they  turn  out  of  a  houldin'."  A  low  murmur  of 
indignant  anger  ran  through  the  group,  not  one  of  whom 
ventured  to  disbelieve  a  testimony  thus  accredited. 

"And  sure  when  the  landlords  does  come,  divil  a  bit  they 
know  about  us, — no  more  nor  if  we  were  in  Swayden; 
didn't  I  hear  the  ould  gentleman  down  there  last  summer, 
pitying  the  people  for  the  distress?  'Ah,'  says  he,  'it's  a 
hard  sayson  ye  have,  and  obliged  to  tear  the  flax  out  of  the 
ground,  and  it  not  long  enough  to  cut ! ' " 

A  ready  burst  of  laughter  followed  this  anecdote,  and 
many  similar  stories  were  recounted  in  corroboration  of  the 
opinion. 

"That's  the  girl  takes  the  shine  out  of  the  fair,"  said  one 
of  the  younger  men  of  the  party,  touching  another  by  the 
arm,  and  pointing  to  a  tall  young  girl,  who,  with  features 
as  straight  and  regular  as  a  classic  model,  moved  slowly 
past.  She  did  not  wear  the  scarlet  cloak  of  the  peasantry, 
but  a  large  one  of  dark  blue,  lined  with  silk  of  the  same 
color;  a  profusion  of  brown  hair,  dark  and  glossy,  was 
braided  on  each  side  of  her  face,  and  turned  up  at  the  .back 
of  the  head  with  the  grace  of  an  antique  cameo.  She  seemed 
BOt  more  than  nineteen  years  of  age,  and  in  the  gaze  of 
astonishment  and  pleasure  she  threw  around  her,  it  might  be 
seen  how  new  such  scenes  and  sights  were  to  her. 

"  That's  Phil  Joyce's  sister,  and  a  crooked  disciple  of  a 
brother  she  has,"  said  the  other;  "  sorra  bit  if  he'd  ever 
let  her  come  to  the  '  pattern '  afore  to-day ;  and  she  's  the 
raal  ornament  of  the  place  now  she  's  in  it." 

"Just  mind  Phil,  will  ye!  Watch  him  now;  see  the 
frown  he  's  giving  the  boys  as  thej^  go  by,  for  looking  at  his 
sister.  I  would  n't  coort  a  girl  that  I  could  n't  look  in  the 
face  and  see  what  was  in  it,  av  she  owned  Ballinahinch 
Castle,"  said  the  former. 

"  There  now;  what  is  he  at  now?  "  whispered  the  other. 
"  He's  left  her  in  the  tent  there  ;  and  look  at  him,  the  way 
he 's  talking  to  ould  Bill ;  he  's  telling  him  something  about 
a  fight ;  never  mind  me  agin,  but  there  '11  be  '  wigs  on  the 
green'  this  night." 

"  I  don't  know  where  the  Lynches  and  the  Connors  is 
to-day,"  said  the  other,  casting  a  suspicious   look   around 


THE  FIRST  ERA.  181 

him,  as  if  anxious  to  calculate  the  forces  available  in  the 
event  of  a  row.  "  They  gave  the  Joyces  their  own  in  Ballin- 
robe  last  fair.  I  hope  they  're  not  afeard  to  come  down 
here." 

"  Sorra  bit,  ma  bouchal,"  said  a  voice  from  behind  his 
shoulder ;  and  at  the  same  moment  the  speaker  clapped  his 
hands  over  the  other's  eyes  :   "  who  am  I,  now?" 

"  Arrah  !  Owen  Connor ;  I  know  ye  well,"  said  the  other; 
' '  and  't  is  yourself  ought  not  to  be  here  to-day.  The  ould 
father  of  ye  has  nobody  but  yourself  to  look  after  him." 

"I'd  like  to  see  ye  call  him  ould  to  his  face,"  said 
Owen,  laughing:  "there  he  is  now,  in  Poll  Dawley's  tent, 
dancing." 

"  Dancing !  "  cried  the  other  two,  in  a  breath. 

"Aye,  faix,  dancing  'The  little  bould  fox;'  and  may  I 
never  die  in  sin,  if  he  has  n't  a  step  that  looks  for  all  the 
world  as  if  lie  made  a  hook  and  eye  of  his  legs." 

The  young  man  who  spoke  these  words  was  in  mould  and 
gesture  the  very  ideal  of  an  Irish  peasant  of  the  West ;  some- 
what above  the  middle  size,  rather  slightly  made,  but  with 
the  light  and  neatly  turned  proportion  that  betokens  activity 
more  than  great  strength,  endurance  rather  than  the  power 
of  any  single  effort.  His  face  well  became  the  character  of 
his  figure ;  it  was  a  handsome  and  an  open  one,  where  the 
expressions  changed  and  crossed  each  other  with  lightning 
speed,  —  now  beaming  with  good  nature,  now  flashing  in 
anger,  now  sparkling  with  some  witty  conception,  or  frown- 
ing a  bold  defiance  as  it  met  the  glance  of  some  member  of  a 
rival  faction.  He  looked,  as  he  was,  one  ready  and  willing 
to  accept  either  part  from  fortune,  and  to  exchange  friend- 
ship and  hard  knocks  with  equal  satisfaction.  Although  in 
dress  and  appearance  he  was  both  cleanly  and  well  clad,  it 
was  evident  that  he  belonged  to  a  ver}^  humble  class  among 
the  peasantry.  Neither  his  hat  nor  his  great-coat,  those 
unerring  signs  of  competence,  had  been  new  for  many  a  day 
before;  and  his  shoes,  in  their  patched  and  mended  con- 
dition, betrayed  the  pains  it  had  cost  him  to  make  even  so 
respectable  an  appearance  as  he  then  presented. 

"  She  did  n't  even  give  you  a  look  to-day,  Owen,"  said  one 
of  the  former  speakers;  "she  turned  her  head  the  other 
way  as  she  went  by." 


182  ST.   PATRICK'S  EVE. 

*'  Faix,  I'm  afeard  ye 've  a  bad  chance,"  said  the  other, 

slyly. 

"  Joke  away,  boys,  and  welcome,"  said  Owen,  reddening 
to  the  eyes  as  he  spoke,  and  showing  that  his  indifference 
to  their  banterings  was  very  far  from  being  real ;  "  't  is  little 
I  mind  what  ye  say,  —  as  little  as  she  herself  would  mind 
me,"  added  he  to  himself. 

"  She's  the  purtiest  girl  in  the  town-land,  and  no  second 
word  to  it ;  and  even  if  she  had  n't  a  fortune  —  " 

''Bad  luck  to  the  fortune!  —  that's  what  I  say,"  cried 
Owen,  suddenly;  "'tis  that  same  that  breaks  my  rest  night 
and  day.  Sure  if  it  was  n't  for  the  money,  there  's  many  a 
dacent  boy  would  n't  be  ashamed  nor  afeard  to  go  up  and 
coort  her." 

"  She  '11  have  two  hundred,  divil  a  less,  I  'm  tould,"  inter- 
posed the  other;  "  the  ould  man  made  a  deal  of  money  in 
the  war-time." 

"  I  wish  he  had  it  with  him  now,"  said  Owen,  bitterly. 

"By  all  accounts  he  wouldn't  mislike  it  himself.  When 
Father  John  was  giving  him  the  rites,  he  says,  '  Phil,'  says 
he,  '  how  ould  are  ye  now?'  and  the  other  did  n't  hear  him, 
but  went  on  muttering  to  himself ;  and  the  priest  says  agin, 
'  'T  is  how  ould  you  are,  I  'm  axing.'  '  A  hundred  and  forty- 
three,'  says  Phil,  looking  up  at  him.  '  The  saints  be  good 
to  us,'  says  Father  John,  '  sure  you  're  not  that  ould,  —  a 
hundred  and  forty-three?'  'A  hundred  and  forty-seven.* 
'  Phew !  he 's  more  of  it,  —  a  hundred  and  forty-seven  ! '  'A 
hundred  and  fifty,'  cries  Phil,  and  he  gave  the  foot  of  the  bed 
a  little  kick,  this  way,  —  sorra  more,  —  and  he  died ;  and 
what  was  it  but  the  guineas  he  was  countin'  in  a  stocking 
under  the  clothes  all  the  while?  Oh,  musha !  how  the  sowl 
was  in  the  money,  and  he  going  to  leave  it  all !  I  heerd 
Father  John  say,  '  it  was  well  they  found  it  out,  for  there  'd 
be  a  curse  on  them  guineas,  and  every  hand  that  would  touch 
one  of  them  in  secia  seclorinn;^  and  they  wer'  all  tuck 
away  in  a  bag  that  night,  and  buried  by  the  priest  in  a 
saycret  place,  where  they'll  never  be  found  till  the  Day  of 
Judgment." 

Just  as  the  story  came  to  its  end,  the  attention  of  the 
group  was  drawn  off  by  seeing  numbers  of  people  running  in 


THE   FIRST  ERA.  183 

a  particular  direction,  while  the  sound  of  voices  and  the 
general  excitement  showed  something  new  was  going  for- 
ward. The  noise  increased ;  and  now  loud  shouts  were 
heard,  mingled  with  the  rattling  of  sticks  and  the  utterance 
of  those  party  cries  so  popular  in  an  Irish  fair.  The  young 
men  stood  still,  as  if  the  affair  was  a  mere  momentary  ebulli- 
tion not  deserving  of  attention,  nor  sufficiently  important  to 
merit  the  taking  any  farther  interest  in  it ;  nor  did  they 
swerve  from  the  resolve  thus  tacitly  formed,  as  from  time  to 
time  some  three  or  four  would  emerge  from  the  crowd,  lead- 
ing forth  one  whose  bleeding  temples  or  smashed  head  made 
retreat  no  longer  dishonorable. 

''  They're  at  it  early,"  was  the  cool  commentary  of  Owen 
Connor,  as  with  a  smile  of  superciliousness  he  looked  towards 
the  scene  of  strife. 

*'  The  Joyces  is  always  the  first  to  begin,"  remarked  one 
of  his  companions. 

"  And  the  first  to  lave  off  too,"  said  Owen  ;  "  two  to  one 
is  what  they  call  fair  play." 

"That's  Phil's  voice! — there,  now,  do  you  hear  him 
shouting  ?  " 

'^'Tis  that  he's  best  at,"  said  Owen,  whose  love  for  the 
pretty  Mary  Joyce  was  scarcely  equalled  by  his  dislike  of 
her  ill-tempered  brother. 

At  this  moment  the  shouts  became  louder  and  wilder,  the 
screams  of  the  women  mingling  with  the  uproar,  which  no 
longer  seemed  a  mere  passing  skirmish,  but  a  downright 
severe  engagement. 

"What  is  it  all  about,  Christy?"  said  Owen,  to  a  young 
fellow  led  past  between  two  friends,  while  the  track  of  blood 
marked  every  step  he  went. 

"  'Tis  well  it  becomes  yez  to  ax,"  muttered  the  other,  with 
his  swollen  and  pallid  lips,  "when  the  Martins  is  beating 
your  landlord's  eldest  son  to  smithereens." 

'•  Mr.  Leslie,  —  young  Mr.  Leslie  ?  "  cried  the  three  together ; 
but  a  wild  war-whoop  from  the  crowd  gave  the  answer  back  : 
"  Hurroo  !  Martin  forever !  Down  with  the  Leslies  !  Bal- 
linashough !  Hurroo  !  Don't  leave  one  of  them  livin'  !  Beat 
their  sowles  out !  " 

''Leslie  forever!"  yelled  out  Owen,  with  a  voice  heard 


184  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

over  every  part  of  the  field  ;  and  with  a  spring  into  the  air, 
and  a  wild  flourish  of  his  stick,  he  dashed  into  the  crowd. 

'•  Here's  Owen  Connor,  make  way  for  Owen! "  cried  the 
non-combatants,  as  they  jostled  and  parted  each  other,  to 
leave  a  free  passage  for  one  whose  prowess  was  well  known. 

*\He  '11  lave  his  mark  on  some  of  yez  yet !  "  "  That 's  the 
boy  will  give  you  music  to  dance  to  !  "  "  Take  that,  Barney  !  " 
*'Ha!  Tarry,  that  made  your  nob  ring  like  a  forty-shilling 
pot !  "  Such  and  such-like  were  the  comments  on  him  who 
now,  reckless  of  his  own  safety,  rushed  madly  into  the  very 
midst  of  the  combatants,  and  fought  his  way  onwards  to 
where  some  seven  or  eight  were  desperately  engaged  over  the 
fallen  figure  of  a  man.  With  a  shrill  yell  no  Indian  could 
surpass,  and  a  bound  like  a  tiger,  Owen  came  down  in  the 
midst  of  them,  every  stroke  of  his  powerful  blackthorn  tell- 
ing on  his  man  as  uuerringl}^  as  though  it  were  wielded  by  the 
hand  of  a  giant. 

*'  Save  the  young  master,  Owen  !  Shelter  him  !  vStand  over 
him,  Owen  Connor  !  "  were  now  the  cries  from  all  sides ;  and 
the  stout-hearted  peasant,  striding  over  the  body  of  young 
Leslie,  cleared  a  space  around  him,  and,  as  he  glanced  de- 
fiance on  all  sides,  called  out:  "Is  that  your  courage,  to 
beat  a  young  gentleman  that  never  handled  a  stick  in  his 
life?  Oh,  3^ou  cowardly  set!  Come  and  face  the  men  of 
your  own  baron}^  if  you  dare !  Come  out  on  the  green  and 
do  it !  —  Pull  him  away,  —  pull  him  away  quick,"  whispered 
he  to  his  own  party  eagerly.  "  Tear-an-ages !  get  him  out 
of  this  before  they're  down  on  me." 

As  he  spoke,  the  Joyces  rushed  forward  with  a  cheer,  their 
party  now  trebly  as  strong  as  the  enemy.  They  bore  down 
with  a  force  that  nothing  could  resist.  Poor  Owen  —  the 
mark  for  every  weapon  —  fell  almost  the  first,  his  head  and 
face  one  indistinguishable  mass  of  blood  and  bruises,  but  not 
before  some  three  or  four  of  his  friends  had  rescued  young 
Leslie  from  his  danger,  and  carried  him  to  the  outskirts  of 
the  fair.  The  fray  now  became  general,  neutrality  was  im- 
possible, and  self-defence  almost  suggested  some  participa- 
tion in  the  battle.  The  victory  was,  however,  with  the 
Joyces.  They  were  on  their  own  territory ;  they  mustered 
every  moment  stronger ;  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  they 


THE   FIRST  ERA.  185 

had  swept  the  enemy  from  the  field,  save  where  a  lin- 
gering wounded  man  remained,  whose  maimed  and  crip- 
pled condition  had  already  removed  him  from  all  the 
animosities  of   combat. 

"  Where's  the  young  master?"  were  the  first  words  Owen 
Connor  spoke,  as  his  friends  carried  him  on  the  door  of  a 
cabin,  hastily  unhinged  for  the  purpose,  towards  his  home. 

"Erra!  he  's  safe  enough,  Owen,"  said  one  of  his  bearers, 
who  was  by  no  means  pleased  that  Mr.  Leslie  had  made  the 
best  of  his  way  out  of  the  fair,  instead  of  remaining  to  see 
the  fight  out. 

*'God  be  praised  for  that  same,  anyhow!"  said  Owen, 
piously.  "His  life  was  not  worth  a  '  trawneen  '  when  I  seen 
him  first." 

It  may  be  supposed  from  this  speech,  and  the  previous 
conduct  of  him  who  uttered  it,  that  Owen  Connor  was  an  old 
and  devoted  adherent  to  the  Leslie  family,  from  whom  he 
had  received  many  benefits,  and  to  whom  he  was  linked  by 
long  acquaintance.  Far  from  it.  He  neither  knew  Mr. 
Leslie  nor  his  father.  The  former  he  saw  for  the  first  time 
as  he  stood  over  him  in  the  fair;  the  latter  he  had  never  so 
much  as  set  eyes  upon,  at  any  time ;  neither  had  he  or  his 
been  favored  by  them.  The  sole  tie  that  subsisted  between 
them  —  the  one  link  that  bound  the  poor  man  to  the  rich 
one  —  was  that  of  the  tenant  to  his  landlord.  Owen's  father 
and  grandfather  before  him  had  been  cottiers  on  the  estate ; 
but  being  very  poor  and  humble  men,  and  the  little  farm 
they  rented,  a  half-tilled,  half-reclaimed  mountain  tract, 
exempt  from  all  prospect  of  improvement,  and  situated  in  a 
remote  and  unfrequented  place,  they  were  merely  known  by 
their  names  on  the  rent-roll.  Except  for  this,  their  exist- 
ence had  been  as  totally  forgotten  as  though  they  had  made 
part  of  the  wild  heath  upon  the  mountain. 

While  Mr.  Leslie  lived  in  ignorance  that  such  people 
existed  on  his  property,  they  looked  up  to  him  with  a 
degree  of  reverence  almost  devotional.  The  owner  of  the 
soil  was  a  character  actually  sacred  in  their  ej^es ;  for  what 
respect  and  what  submission  were  enough  for  one  who  held 
in  his  hands  the  destinies  of  so  many ;  who  could  raise  them 
to  affluence  or  depress  them  to  want,  and  by  his  mere  word 


186  ST.   PATRICK'S  EVE. 

control  the  agent  himself,  the  most  dreaded  of  all  those  who 
exerted  an  influence  on  their  fortunes? 

There  was  a  feudalism,  too,  in  this  sentiment  that  gave 
the  reverence  a  feeling  of  strong  allegiance.  The  landlord 
was  the  head  of  a  clan,  as  it  were:  he  was  the  cuhiiinating 
point  of  that  pyramid  of  which  they  formed  the  base;  and 
they  were  proud  of  every  display  of  his  wealth  and  his 
power,  which  they  deemed  as  ever  reflecting  credit  upon 
themselves.  And  then,  his  position  in  the  county,  his 
rank,  his  titles,  the  amount  of  his  property,  his  house, 
his  retinue,  his  very  equipage,  were  all  subjects  on  which 
they  descanted  with  eager  delight,  and  proudly  exalted 
in  contrast  with  less  favored  proprietors.  At  the  time  we 
speak  of,  absenteeism  had  only  begun  to  impair  the  warmth 
of  this  affection;  the  traditions  of  a  resident  landlord  were 
yet  fresh  in  the  memory  of  the  young ;  and  a  hundred  traits 
of  kindness  and  good-nature  were  mingled  in  their  minds 
with  stories  of  grandeur  and  extravagance,  which,  to  the 
Ii'ish  peasant's  ear,  are  themes  as  grateful  as  ever  the  gor- 
geous pictures  of  Eastern  splendor  were  to  the  heightened 
imagination  and  burning  fancies  of  Oriental  listeners. 

Owen  Connor  was  a  Arm  disciple  of  this  creed.  Perhaps 
his  lone  sequestered  life  among  the  mountains,  with  no 
companionship  save  that  of  his  old  father,  had  made  him 
longer  retain  these  convictions  in  all  their  force,  than  if,  by 
admixture  with  his  equals,  and  greater  intercourse  with  the 
world,  he  had  conformed  his  opinions  to  the  gradually 
changed  tone  of  the  country.  It  was  of  little  moment  to  him 
what  might  be  the  temper  or  the  habits  of  his  landlord. 
The  monarchy  —  and  not  the  monarch  of  the  soil  —  was  the 
object  of  his  loyalty;  and  he  would  have  deemed  himself 
disgraced  and  dishonored  had  he  shown  the  slightest  back- 
wardness in  his  fealty.  He  would  as  soon  have  expected 
that  the  tall  fern  that  grew  wild  in  the  valley  should  have 
changed  into  a  blooming  crop  of  wheat,  as  that  the  perform- 
ance of  such  a  service  could  have  met  with  any  requital. 
It  was,  to  his  thinking,  a  simple  act  of  duty,  and  required 
not  any  prompting  of  high  principle,  still  less  any  sugges- 
tion of  self-interest.  Poor  Owen,  therefore,  had  not  even  a 
sentiment  of  heroism  to  cheer  him,  as  they  bore  him  slowly 


THE   FIRST  ERA.  187 

aloDg,  every  inequality  of  the  ground  sending  a  pang 
through  his  aching  head  that  was  actually  torture. 

''That 's  a  mark  you  '11  carry  to  your  dying  day,  Owen,  my 
boy,"  said  one  of  the  bearers,  as  they  stopped  for  a  moment 
to  take  breath.  "I  can  see  the  bone  there  shining  this 
minute." 

"It  must  be  good  stuff  anyways,  the  same  head,"  said 
Owen,  with  a  sickly  attempt  to  smile.  *'They  never  put  a 
star  in  it  yet;  and  faix  I  seen  the  sticks  cracking  like  dry 
wood  in  the  frost." 

"It's  well  it  didn't  come  lower  down,"  said  another, 
examining  the  deep  cut  which  gashed  his  forehead  from  the 
hair  down  to  the  eyebrow.  "You  know  what  the  Widow 
Glynn  said  at  Peter  Henessey's  wake,  when  she  saw  the 
stroke  of  the  scythe  that  laid  his  head  open, — it  just 
come,  like  yer  own,  down  to  that,  — '  Ayeh !  '  says  she, 
'but  he's  the  fine  corpse;  and  wasn't  it  the  Lord  spared 
his  eye!'" 

"Stop,  and  good  luck  to  you,  Freney,  and  don't  be  mak- 
ing me  laugh;  the  pain  goes  through  my  brain  like  the  stick 
of  a  knife,"  said  Owen,  as  he  lifted  his  trembling  hands  and 
pressed  them  on  either  side  of  his  head. 

They  wetted  his  lips  with  water,  and  resumed  their  way, 
not  speaking  aloud  as  before,  but  in  a  low  undertone,  only 
audible  to  Owen  at  intervals;  for  he  had  sunk  into  a  half- 
stupid  state  they  believed  to  be  sleep.  The  path  each 
moment  grew  steeper;  for  leaving  the  wild  "boreen"  road, 
which  led  to  a  large  bog  on  the  mountain-side,  it  wound 
now  upwards,  zigzagging  between  masses  of  granite  rock 
and  deep  tufts  of  heather,  where  sometimes  the  foot  sunk 
to  the  instep.  The  wet  and  spongy  soil  increased  the  diffi- 
culty greatly;  and  although  all  strong  and  powerful  men, 
they  were  often  obliged  to  halt  and  rest  themselves. 

"It's  an  iligant  view,  sure  enough,"  said  one,  wiping  his 
dripping  forehead  with  the  tail  of  his  coat.  "See  there! 
look  down  where  the  fair  is,  now!  it  isn't  the  size  of  a 
good  griddle,  the  whole  of  it.  How  purty  the  lights  look 
shining  in  the  water!  And  the  boats,  too!  Musha!  they  're 
coming  up  more  of  them.  There  '11  be  good  divarshin  there, 
this  night."     These  last  words,   uttered  with  a  half -sigh, 


188  ST.  PATKICK'S  EVE. 

showed  with  what  a  heavy  heart  the  speaker  saw  himself 
debarred  from  participating  in  the  festivity. 

•'  'T  was  a  dhroll  place  to  build  a  house,  then,  up  there," 
said  another,  pointing  to  the  dark  speck,  far,  far  away  on 
the  mountain,  where  Owen  Connor's  cabin  stood. 

"Owen  says  yez  can  see  Gal  way  of  a  fine  day,  and  the 
boats  going  out  from  the  Claddagh;  and  of  an  evening, 
when  the  sun  is  going  down,  you  '11  see  across  the  bay, 
over  to  Clare,  the  big  cliffs  of  Mogher." 

"Now,  then!  are  ye  in  earnest?  I  don't  wonder  he  's  so 
fond  of  the  place,  after  all.  It's  an  iligant  thing  to  see  the 
whole  world,  and  fine  company,  besides.  Look  at  Lough 
Mask!  Now,  boys,  isn't  that  beautiful  with  the  sun  on 
it?" 

"Come,  it's  getting  late,  Freney,  and  the  poor  boy  ought 
to  be  at  home  before  night."  And  once  more  they  lifted 
their  burden  and  moved  forward. 

For  a  considerable  time  they  continued  to  ascend  without 
speaking,  when  one  of  the  party  in  a  low  cautious  voice  re- 
marked, "Poor  Owen  will  think  worse  of  it,  when  he  hears 
the  reason  of  the  fight,  than  for  the  cut  on  the  head,  —  bad 
as  it  is." 

"Masha;  then  he  needn't,"  replied  another;  "for  if  ye 
mane  about  Mary  Joyce,  he  never  had  a  chance  of  her." 

"I  'm  not  saying  that  he  had,"  said  the  first  speaker;  "but 
he  's  just  as  fond  of  her:  do  you  mind  the  way  he  never  gave 
back  one  of  Phil's  blows,  but  let  him  hammer  away  as  fast 
as  he  plazed?  " 

"What  was  it,  at  all,  that  Mr.  Leslie  did?"  asked  an- 
other; "I  did  n't  hear  how  it  began  yet." 

"Nor  I,  either,  rightly;  but  I  believe  Mary  was  standing 
looking  at  the  dance,  for  she  never  foots  a  step  herself,  — 
maybe  she 's  too  ginteel,  —  and  the  young  gentleman  comes 
up  and  axes  her  for  a  partner;  and  something  she  said: 
but  what  does  he  do  but  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  and 
gives  her  a  kiss?  and,  ye  see,  the  other  girls  laughed  hearty, 
because  they  say  Mary  's  so  proud  and  high,  and  thinking 
herself  above  them  all.  Phil  wasn't  there  at  the  time;  but 
he  heerd  it  afterwards,  and  come  up  to  the  tent  as  young 
Mr.  Leslie  was  laving  it,  and  stood  before  him,  and  would  n't 


THE  FIRST  ERA.  189 

let  him  pass.  *  I  've  a  word  to  say  to  ye, '  says  Phil,  and  he 
scarce  able  to  spake  with  passion ;  *  that  was  my  sister  ye 
had  the  impudence  to  take  a  liberty  with.'  '  Out  of  the  way, 
ye  bogtrotter,'  says  Leslie, —  them  's  the  very  words  he  said ; 
'  out  of  the  way,  ye  bogtrotter,  or  I  '11  lay  my  whip  across 
your  shoulders.'  '  Take  that  first,'  says  Phil;  and  he  put 
his  fist  between  his  two  eyes,  neat  and  clean.  Down  went 
the  squire  as  if  he  was  shot.  You  know  the  rest  yourselves. 
The  boys  did  n't  lose  any  time,  and  if  'twas  only  two  hours 
later,  maybe  the  Joyces  would  have  got  as  good  as  they 
gave." 

A  heavy  groan  from  poor  Owen  now  stopped  the  conversa- 
tion, and  they  halted  to  ascertain  if  he  were  worse.  But 
no;  he  seemed  still  sunk  in  the  same  heavy  sleep  as  before, 
and  apparently  unconscious  of  all  about  him.  Such,  how- 
ever, was  not  really  the  case ;  by  some  strange  phenomenon 
of  sickness,  the  ear  had  taken  in  each  low  and  whispered 
word,  at  the  time  it  would  have  been  deaf  to  louder  sounds ; 
and  every  syllable  they  had  spoken  had  already  sunk  deeply 
into  his  heart.  Happily  for  him,  this  was  but  a  momentary 
pang;  the  grief  stunned  him  at  once,  and  he  became 
insensible. 

It  was  dark  night  as  they  reached  the  lonely  cabin  where 
Owen  lived,  miles  away  from  any  other  dwelling,  and  stand- 
ing at  an  elevation  of  more  than  a  thousand  feet  above  the 
plain.  The  short,  sharp  barking  of  a  sheep-dog  was  the 
only  sound  that  welcomed  them ;  for  the  old  man  had  not 
heard  of  his  son's  misfortune  until  long  after  they  quitted 
the  fair.     The  door  was  hasped  and  fastened  with  a  stick, 

—  precaution  enough  in  such  a  place,  and  for  all  that  it  con- 
tained too.  Opening  this,  they  carried  the  young  man  in, 
and  laid  him  upon  the  bed ;  and  while  some  busied  them- 
selves in  kindling  a  fire  upon  the  hearth,  the  others  endeav- 
ored, with  such  skill  as  they  possessed,  to  dress  his  wounds, 

—  an  operation  which,  if  not  strictly  surgical  in  all  its 
details,  had  at  least  the  recommendation  of  tolerable  ex- 
perience in  such  matters. 

"It 's  a  nate  little  place  when  j^ou  're  at  it,  then,"  said  one 
of  them,  as  with  a  piece  of  lighted  bog-pine  he  took  a  very 
leisurely  and  accurate  view  of  the  interior. 


190  ST.   PATRICK'S   EVE. 

The  opinion,  however,  must  be  taken  by  the  reader  as 
rather  reflecting  on  the  judgment  of  him  who  pronounced  it 
than  in  absolute  praise  of  the  object  itself.  The  cabin  con- 
sisted of  a  single  room,  and  which,  though  remarkably  clean 
in  comparison  with  similar  ones,  had  no  evidence  of  any- 
thing above  very  narrow  circumstances.  A  little  dresser 
occupied  the  wall  in  front  of  the  door,  with  its  usual  com- 
plement of  crockery,  cracked  and  whole;  an  old  chest  of 
drawers,  the  pride  of  the  house,  flanked  this  on  one  side; 
a  low  settle-bed  on  the  other;  various  prints  in  very  florid 
coloring  decorated  the  walls,  all  religious  subjects,  where 
the  apostles  figured  in  garments  like  bathing-dresses;  these 
were  intermixed  with  ballads,  dying  speeches,  and  such-like 
ghostly  literature  as  forms  the  most  interesting  reading  of 
an  Irish  peasant;  a  few  seats  of  unpainted  deal,  and  a  large 
straw  chair  for  the  old  man,  were  the  principal  articles  of 
furniture.  There  was  a  gun,  minus  the  lock,  suspended 
over  the  fireplace,  and  two  fishing-rods,  with  a  gaff  and 
landing-net,  were  stretched  upon  wooden  pegs;  while  over 
the  bed  was  an  earthenware  crucifix,  with  its  little  cup  be- 
neath for  holy  water ;  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  picture  of 
St.  Francis  Xavier  in  the  act  of  blessing  somebody ;  though, 
if  tlie  gesture  were  to  be  understood  without  the  explanatory 
letter-press,  he  rather  looked  like  a  swimmer  preparing  for 
a  dive.  The  oars,  mast,  and  spritsail  of  a  boat  were  lashed 
to  the  rafters  overhead ;  for,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  there 
was  a  lake  at  that  elevation  of  the  mountain,  and  one  which 
abounded  in  trout  and  perch,  affording  many  a  day's  sport 
to  both  Owen  and  his  father. 

Such  were  the  details  which,  sheltered  beneath  a  warm 
roof  of  mountain-fern,  called  forth  the  praise  we  have  men- 
tioned ;  and,  poor  as  they  may  seem  to  the  reader,  they  were 
many  degrees  in  comfort  beyond  the  majority  of  Irish 
cabins. 

The  boys, —  for  so  the  unmarried  men  of  whatever  age  are 
called,  —  having  left  one  of  the  party  to  watch  over  Owen, 
now  quitted  the  house,  and  began  their  return  homeward. 
It  was  past  midnight  when  the  old  man  returned;  and  al- 
though endeavoring  to  master  any  appearance  of  emotion 
before  the  "strange  boy,"  he  could  with  diflSculty  control 


THE   FIRST  ERA.  .  191 

his  feelings  on  beholding  his  son.  The  shirt  matted  with 
blood,  contrasting  with  the  livid  colorless  cheek,  the  heavy 
irregular  breathing,  the  frequent  startings  as  he  slept,  were 
all  sore  trials  to  the  old  man's  nerve;  but  he  managed  to 
seem  calm  and  collected,  and  to  treat  the  occurrence  as  an 
ordinary  one. 

"Harry  Joyce  and  his  brother  Luke  —  big  Luke  as  they 
call  him  —  has  sore  bones  to-night;  they  tell  me  that  Owen 
didn't  lave  breath  in  their  bodies,"  said  he,  with  a  grim 
smile,  as  he  took  his  place  by  the  fire. 

"I  heerd  the  ribs  of  them  smashing  like  an  ould  turf 
creel,"  replied  the  other. 

'"Tis  himself  can  do  it,"  said  the  old  fellow,  with  eyes 
glistening  with  delight;  "fair  play  and  good  ground,  and 
I  'd  back  him  agin  the  Glen." 

"And  so  you  might,  and  farther  too;  he  has  the  speret  in 
him,  — that's  better  nor  strength,  any  day." 

And  thus  consoled  by  the  recollection  of  Owen's  prowess, 
and  gratified  by  the  hearty  concurrence  of  his  guest,  the 
old  father  smoked  and  chatted  away  till  daybreak.  It  was 
not  that  he  felt  any  want  of  affection  for  his  son,  or  that  his 
heart  was  untouched  by  the  sad  spectacle  he  presented,  — 
far  from  this.  The  poor  old  man  had  no  other  tie  to  life, 
no  other  object  of  hope  or  love  than  Owen ;  but  years  of  a 
solitary  life  had  taught  him  rather  to  conceal  his  emotions 
within  his  own  bosom  than  seek  for  consolation  beyond  it; 
besides  that,  even  in  his  grief  the  old  sentiment  of  faction- 
hatred  was  strong,  and  vengeance  had  its  share  in  his 
thoughts  also. 

It  would  form  no  part  of  our  object  in  this  story,  to  dwell 
longer  either  on  this  theme  or  the  subject  of  Owen's  illness ; 
it  will  be  enough  to  say  that  he  soon  got  better,  far  sooner, 
perhaps,  than  if  all  the  appliances  of  luxury  had  ministered 
to  his  recovery;  most  certainly  sooner  than  if  his  brain 
had  been  ordinarily  occupied  by  thoughts  and  cares  of  a 
higher  order  than  his  were.  The  conflict,  however,  had 
left  a  deeper  scar  behind  than  the  ghastly  wound  that  marked 
his  brow.  The  poor  fellow  dwelt  upon  the  portions  of  the 
conversation  he  overheard  as  they  carried  him  up  the  moun- 
tain; and  whatever  might  have  been  his  fears  before,  now 


192  •  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

he  was  convinced  that  all  prospect  of  gaining  Mary's  love 
was  lost  to  him  forever. 

This  depression,  natural  to  one  after  so  severe  an  injury, 
excited  little  remark  from  the  old  man;  and  although  he 
wished  Owen  might  make  some  effort  to  exert  himself,  or 
even  move  about  in  the  air,  he  left  him  to  himself  and  his 
own  time,  well  knowing  that  he  never  was  disposed  to  yield 
an  hour  to  sickness  beyond  what  he  felt  unavoidable.  It 
was  about  eight  or  nine  days  after  the  fair  that  the  father 
was  sitting  mending  a  fishing-net  at  the  door  of  his  cabin, 
to  catch  the  last  light  of  the  fading  day.  Owen  was  seated 
near  him,  sometimes  watching  the  progress  of  the  work, 
sometimes  patting  the  old  sheep-dog  that  nestled  close  by, 
when  the  sound  of  voices  attracted  them ;  they  listened,  and 
could  distinctly  hear  persons  talking  at  the  opposite  side  of 
the  cliff,  along  which  the  pathway  led;  and  before  they 
could  even  hazard  a  guess  as  to  who  they  were,  the  strangers 
appeared  at  the  angle  of  the  rock.  The  party  consisted  of 
two  persons:  one,  a  gentleman  somewhat  advanced  in  life, 
mounted  on  a  stout  but  rough-looking  pony ;  the  other  was 
a  countryman,  who  held  the  beast  by  the  bridle,  and  seemed 
to  take  the  greatest  precaution  for  the  rider's  safety. 

The  very  few  visitors  Owen  and  his  father  met  with  were, 
for  the  most  part,  people  coming  to  fish  the  mountain-lake, 
who  usually  hired  ponies  in  the  valley  for  the  ascent;  so 
that  when  they  perceived  the  animal  coming  slowly  along, 
they  scarce  bestowed  a  second  glance  upon  them,  the  old 
man  merely  remarking,  "They're  three  weeks  too  early  for 
this  water,  anyhow,"  —  a  sentiment  concurred  in  by  his  son. 
In  less  than  five  minutes  after,  the  rider  and  his  guide  stood 
before  the  door. 

"Is  this  where  Owen  Connor  lives?"  asked  the  gen- 
tleman. 

*'That  same,  yer  honor,"  said  old  Owen,  uncovering  his 
head,  as  he  rose  respectfully  from  his  low  stool. 

"And  where  is  Owen  Connor  himself?" 

*"Tis  me,  sir,"  replied  he;  "that's  my  name." 

"Yes,  but  it  can  scarcely  be  you  that  I  am  looking  for; 
have  you  a  son  of  that  name  ? " 

"Yes,  sir,  I'm  young  Owen,"  said  the  young  man,  rising, 


THE  FIRST  ERA.  I93 

but  not  without  difficulty,  while  he  steadied  himself  by 
holding  the  door-post. 

"So,  then,  I  am  all  right.  Tracy,  lead  the  pony  about  till 
I  call  you ;  "  and  so  saying,  he  dismounted  and  entered  the 
cabin. 

"Sit  down,  Owen;  yes,  yes, — I  insist  upon  it,  and  do 
you  also.  I  have  come  up  here  to-day  to  have  a  few 
moments'  talk  with  you  about  an  occurrence  that  took  place 
last  week  at  the  fair.  There  was  a  young  gentleman,  Mr. 
Leslie,  got  roughly  treated  by  some  of  the  people;  let  me 
hear  your  account  of  it." 

Owen  and  his  father  exchanged  glances;  the  same  idea 
flashed  across  the  minds  of  both  that  the  visitor  was  a 
magistrate  come  to  take  information  against  the  Joyces  for 
an  assault;  and  however  gladly  they  would  have  embraced 
any  course  that  promised  retaliation  for  their  injuries,  the 
notion  of  recurring  to  the  law  was  a  degree  of  baseness 
they  would  have  scorned  to  adopt. 

"I  '11  take  the  '  vestment '  I  never  seen  it  at  all,"  said  the 
old  man,  eagerly,  and  evidently  delighted  that  no  manner 
of  cross-questioning  or  badgering  could  convert  him  into  an 
informer. 

"And  the  little  I  saw,"  said  Owen,  "they  knocked  out  of 
my  memory  with  this;"  and  he  pointed  to  the  half-healed 
gash  on  his  forehead. 

"  But  you  know  something  of  how  the  row  begun  ?  " 

"No,  yer  honor,  I  was  at  the  other  side  of  the  fair." 

"Was  young  Mr.  Leslie  in  fault,  — did  you  hear  that?" 

"I  never  heerd  that  he  did  anything  —  unagreeable,"  said 
Owen,  after  hesitating  for  a  few  seconds  in  his  choice  of  a 
word. 

"So,  then,  I  'm  not  likely  to  obtain  any  information  from 
either  of  you  ?  " 

They  made  no  reply,  but  their  looks  gave  as  palpable 
a  concurrence  to  this  speech  as  though  they  swore  to  its 
truth. 

"Well,  I  have  another  question  to  ask.  It  was  you  saved 
this  young  gentleman,  I  understand;  what  was  your  motive 
for  doing  so',  when,  as  by  your  own  confession,  you  were  at 
a  distance  when  the  fight  begun  ?  " 

VOL.    II.  — 13 


194  ST.   PATRICK'S  EVE. 

"He  was  my  landlord's  son,"  said  Owen,  half  roughly; 
"I  hope  there  is  no  law  agin  that." 

"I  sincerely  trust  not,"  ejaculated  the  gentleman;  "have 
you  been  long  on  the  estate?" 

"Three  generations  of  us  now,  yer  honor,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"And  what  rent  do  you  pay ?  " 

''Oh,  musha,  we  pay  enough!  we  pay  fifteen  shillings  an 
acre  for  the  bit  of  callows  below,  near  the  lake,  and  we  give 
ten  pounds  a  year  for  the  mountain  —  and  bad  luck  to  it  for 
a  mountain  —  it 's  breaking  my  heart  trying  to  make  some- 
thing out  of  it." 

"Then  I  suppose  you  'd  be  well  pleased  to  exchange  your 
farm,  and  take  one  in  a  better  and  more  profitable  part  of 
the  country?  " 

Another  suspicion  here  shot  across  the  old  man's  mind; 
and,  turning  to  Owen,  he  said  in  Irish:  "He  wants  to  get 
the  mountain  for  sporting  over;  but  I  '11  not  lave  it." 

The  gentleman  repeated  his  question. 

"Troth,  no,  then,  yer  honor;  we've  lived  here  so  long 
we  '11  just  stay  our  time  in  it." 

"But  the  rent  is  heavy,  you  say." 

"Well,  we  '11  pay  it,  plaze  God." 

"And  I  'm  sure  it 's  a  strange  wild  place  in  winter." 

"It's  wholesome,  anyhow,"  was  the  short  reply. 

"I  believe  I  must  go  back  again  as  wise  as  I  came,"  mut- 
tered the  gentleman.  "  Come,  my  good  old  man,  —  and 
you,  Owen ;  I  want  to  know  how  I  can  best  serve  you  for 
what  you've  done  for  me:  it  was  my  son  you  rescued  in 
the  fair  —  " 

"Are  you  the  landlord  —  is  3^er  honor  Mr.  Leslie?"  ex- 
claimed both,  as  they  rose  from  their  seats  as  horrified  as  if 
they  had  taken  such  a  liberty  before  royalty. 

"Yes,  Owen;  and  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  should  cause  so 
much  surprise  to  any  tenant  at  seeing  me.  I  ought  to  be 
better  known  on  my  property;  and  I  hope  to  become  so: 
but  it  grows  late,  and  I  must  reach  the  valley  before  night. 
Tell  me,  are  3^ou  really  attached  to  this  farm,  or  have  I  any 
other,  out  of  lease  at  this  time,  you  like  better?" 

"I  would  not  leave  the  ould  spot,  with  yer  honor's  per- 


THE   FIRST  ERA.  195 

mission,  to  get  a  demesne  and  a  brick  house ;  nor  Owen, 
neither." 

"  Well,  then,  be  it  so ;  I  can  only  say,  if  you  ever  change 
your  mind,  you  '11  find  me  both  ready  and  willing  to  serve 
you;  meanwhile  j^ou  must  pay  no  more  rent  here." 

''No  more  rent!" 

"  Not  a  farthing ;  I  'm  sorry  the  favor  is  so  slight  a  one, 
for,  indeed,  the  mountain  seems  a  bleak  and  profitless 
tract." 

''  There  is  not  its  equal  for  mutton  —  " 

"I'm  glad  of  it,  Owen;  and  it  only  remains  for  me  to 
make  the  shepherd  something  more  comfortable.  Well,  take 
this ;  and  when  I  next  come  up  here,  which  I  intend  to  do, 
to  fish  the  lake,  I  hope  to  find  you  in  a  better  house  ;  "  and 
he  pressed  a  pocket-book  into  the  old  man's  hand  as  he  said 
this,  and  left  the  cabin :  while  both  Owen  and  his  father 
were  barely  able  to  mutter  a  blessing  upon  him,  so  over- 
whelming and  unexpected  was  the  whole  occurrence. 


From  no  man's  life,  perhaps,  is  hope  more  rigidly  excluded 
than  from  that  of  the  Irish  peasant  of  a  poor  district.  The 
shipwrecked  mariner  upon  his  raft,  the  convict  in  his  cell, 
the  lingering  sufferer  on  a  sick-bed,  may  hope  ;  but  he  must 
not. 

Daily  labor,  barely  sufficient  to  produce  the  commonest 
necessaries  of  life,  points  to  no  period  of  rest  or  repose ; 
year  succeeds  year  in  the  same  dull  routine  of  toil  and 
privation ;  nor  can  he  look  around  him  and  see  one  who 
has  risen  from  that  life  of  misery  to  a  position  of  even  com- 
parative comfort. 

The  whole  study  of  his  existence,  tlie  whole  philosophj^  of 
his  life,  is,  how  to  endure  ;  to  struggle  on  under  poverty 
and  sickness;  in  seasons  of  famine,  in  times  of  national 
calamity,  to  hoard  up  the  little  pittance  for  his  landlord 
and  the  payment  for  his  priest,  and  he  has  nothing  more 
to  seek  for.  Were  it  our  object  here,  it  would  not  be 
difficult  to  pursue  this  theme  further,  and  examine  if  much 
of  the  imputed  slothfulness  and  indolence  of  the  people  was 
not  in  reality  due  to  that  very  hopelessness.  How  little 
energy  would  be  left  to  life  if  you  take  away  its  ambitions  ; 
how  few  would  enter  upon  the  race,  if  there  were  no  goal 


THE   SECOND  ERA.  197 

before  them  !  Our  present  aim,  however,  is  rather  with  the 
fortunes  of  those  we  have  so  lately  left.  To  these  poor 
men,  now,  a  new  existence  opened.  Not  the  sun  of  spring 
could  more  suddenly  illumine  the  landscape  where  winter  so 
late  had  thrown  its  shadows,  than  did  prosperity  fall  brightly 
on  their  hearts,  endowing  life  with  pleasures  and  enjoy- 
ments of  which  they  had  not  dared  to  dream  before. 

In  preferring  this  mountain  tract  to  some  rich  lowland 
farm,  they  were  rather  guided  by  that  spirit  of  attachment 
to  the  home  of  their  fathers  —  so  characteristic  a  trait  in 
the  Irish  peasant  —  than  by  the  promptings  of  self-interest. 
The  mountain  was  indeed  a  wild  and  bleak  expanse,  scarce 
affording  herbage  for  a  few  sheep  and  goats  ;  the  callows 
at  its  foot,  deeply  flooded  in  winter,  and  even  by  the  rains 
of  autumn,  made  tillage  precarious  and  uncertain  ;  yet  the 
fact  that  these  were  rent-free,  that  of  its  labor  and  its  fruits 
all  was  now  their  own,  iuspired  hope  and  sweetened  toil. 
They  no  longer  felt  the  dreary  monotony  of  daily  exertion, 
by  which  hour  was  linked  to  hour,  and  year  to  year,  in  one 
unbroken  succession,  —  no ;  they  now  could  look  forward, 
they  could  lift  up  their  hearts  and  strain  their  eyes  to  a 
future  where  honest  industry  had  laid  up  its  store  for  the 
decline  of  life ;  they  could  already  fancy  the  enjoyments  of 
the  summer  season,  when  they  should  look  down  upon  their 
own  crops  and  herds,  or  think  of  the  winter  nights,  and  the 
howling  of  the  storm  without,  reminding  them  of  the  bless- 
ings of  a  home. 

''  How  little  to  the  mind  teeming  with  its  bright  and 
ambitious  aspirings  would  seem  the  history  of  their  humble 
hopes !  How  insignificant  and  how  narrow  might  appear 
the  little  plans  and  plots  they  laid  for  that  new  road  in  life 
in  which  they  were  now  to  travel !  The  great  man  might 
scoff  at  these,  the  moralist  might  frown  at  their  worldliness ; 
but  there  is  nothing  sordid  or  mean  in  the  spirit  of  manly 
independence ;  and  they  who  know  the  Irish  people  will 
never  accuse  them  of  receiving  worldly  benefits  with  any 
forgetfulness  of  their  true  and  only  source.  And  now  to 
our  story. 

The  little  cabin  upon  the  mountain  was  speedily  added  to, 
and  fashioned  into  a  comfortable-looking  farmhouse  of  the 


198  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

humbler  class.  Both  father  and  son  would  willingly  have 
left  it  as  it  was;  but  the  landlord's  wish  had  laid  a  command 
upon  them,  and  they  felt  it  would  have  been  a  misapplication 
of  his  bounty  had  they  not  done  as  he  had  desired.  So 
closely,  indeed,  did  they  adhere  to  his  injunctions,  that  a 
little  room  was  added  specially  for  his  use  and  accommoda- 
tion, whenever  he  came  on  that  promised  excursion  he  hinted 
at.  Every  detail  of  this  little  chamber  interested  them 
deeply ;  and  many  a  night,  as  they  sat  over  their  fire,  did 
they  eagerly  discuss  the  habits  and  tastes  of  the  "quality," 
anxious  to  be  wanting  in  nothing  which  should  make  it  suit- 
able for  one  like  him.  Sufficient  money  remained  above 
all  this  expenditure  to  purchase  some  sheep,  and  even  a  cow, 
and  already  their  changed  fortunes  had  excited  the  interest 
and  curiosity  of  the  little  world  in  which  they  lived. 

There  is  one  blessing,  and  it  is  a  great  one,  attendant  on 
humble  life.  The  amelioration  of  condition  requires  not 
that  a  man  should  leave  the  friends  and  companions  he  has 
so  long  sojourned  with,  and  seek,  in  a  new  order,  others  to 
supply  their  place ;  the  spirit  of  class  does  not  descend  to 
him,  or  rather,  he  is  far  above  it ;  his  altered  state  suggests 
comparatively  few  enjoyments  or  comforts  in  which  his  old 
associates  cannot  participate ;  and  thus  the  Connors'  cabin 
was  each  Sunday  thronged  by  the  country  people,  who  came 
to  see  with  their  own  ej^es,  and  hear  with  their  own  ears,  the 
wonderful  good  fortune  that  befell  them. 

Had  the  landlord  been  an  angel  of  light,  the  blessings 
invoked  upon  him  could  not  have  been  more  frequent  or 
fervent ;  each  measured  the  munificence  of  the  act  by  his 
own  short  standard  of  worldly  possessions ;  and  individual 
murmurings  for  real  or  fancied  wrongs  were  hushed  in  the 
presence  of  one  such  deed  of  benevolence. 

This  is  no  exaggerated  picture.  Such  was  peasant  grati- 
tude once ;  and  such,  O  landlords  of  Ireland !  it  might  still 
have  been,  if  j'^ou  had  not  deserted  the  people.  The  meanest 
of  your  favors,  the  poorest  show  of  your  good-feeling,  were 
acts  of  grace  for  which  nothing  was  deemed  requital.  Your 
presence  in  the  poor  man's  cabin,  your  kind  word  to  him 
upon  the  highway,  j^our  aid  in  sickness,  3^our  counsel  in 
trouble,  were  ties  which  bound  him  more  closely  to  your  in- 


THE  SECOND  ERA.  199 

terest,  and  made  him  more  surely  yours,  than  all  the  parch- 
ment of  your  attorney  or  all  the  papers  of  your  agent.  He 
knew  you  then  as  something  more  than  the  recipient  of  his 
earnings.  That  was  a  time  when  neither  the  hireling  patriot 
uor  the  calumnious  press  could  sow  discord  between  you. 
If  it  be  otherwise  now,  ask  3'ourselves  are  you  all  blameless  ? 
Did  you  ever  hope  that  affection  could  be  transmitted  through 
your  agent,  like  the  proceeds  of  your  propert}^?  Did  you 
expect  that  the  attachments  of  a  people  were  to  reach  you 
by  the  post !  Or  was  it  not  natural  that,  in  their  desertion 
by  3^ou,  they  should  seek  succor  elsewhere,  —  that  in  their 
difficulties  and  their  trials  they  should  turn  to  any  who 
might  feel  or  feign  compassion  for  them  ?  Nor  is  it  wonder- 
ful that,  amid  the  benefits  thus  bestowed,  they  should  imbibe 
principles  and  opinions  fatally  in  contrast  with  interests  like 
yours. 

There  were  few  on  whom  good  fortune  could  have  fallen 
without  exciting  more  envious  and  jealous  feelings  on  the 
part  of  others  than  on  the  Connors.  The  rugged  indepen- 
dent character  of  the  father,  the  gay,  light-hearted  nature 
of  the  son,  had  given  them  few  enemies  and  many  friends. 
The  whole  neighborhood  flocked  about  them  to  offer  their 
good  wishes  and  congratulations  on  their  bettered  condition, 
and  with  an  honesty  of  purpose  and  a  sincerity  that  might 
have  shamed  a  more  elevated  sphere.  The  Joyces  alone 
showed  no  participation  in  this  sentiment,  or,  rather,  tliat 
small  fraction  of  them  more  immediately  linked  with  Phil 
Joyce.  At  first  they  affected  to  sneer  at  the  stories  of  the 
Connors'  good  fortune ;  and  when  denial  became  absurd, 
they  half-hinted  that  it  was  a  new  custom  in  Ireland  for  men 
"  to  fight  for  money."  These  mocking  speeches  were  not 
slow  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  old  man  and  his  son ;  and  many 
thought  that  the  next  fair-day  would  bring  with  it  a  heavy 
retribution  for  'the  calamities  of  the  last.  In  this,  however, 
they  were  mistaken.  Neither  Owen  nor  his  father  appeared 
that  day;  the  mustering  of  their  faction  was  strong  and 
powerful,  but  they  whose  wrongs  were  the  cause  of  the 
gathering  never  came  forward  to  head  them. 

This  was  an  indignity  not  to  be  passed  over  in  silence; 
and  the  murmurs,  at  first  low  and  subdued,  grew  louder  and 


200  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

louder,  until  denunciations  heavy  and  deep  fell  upon  the 
two  who  "wouldn't  come  out  and  right  themselves  like 
men."  The  faction,  discomfited  and  angered,  soon  broke 
up ;  and  returning  homeward  in  their  several  directions,  they 
left  the  field  to  the  enemy  without  even  a  blow.  On  the 
succeeding  day,  when  the  observances  of  religion  had  taken 
place  of  the  riotous  and  disorderly  proceedings  of  the  fair, 
it  was  not  customary  for  the  younger  men  to  remain.  The 
frequenters  of  the  place  were  mostly  women ;  the  few  of  the 
other  sex  were  either  old  and  feeble  men,  or  such  objects  of 
compassion  as  traded  on  the  pious  feelings  of  the  votaries  so 
opportunely  evoked.  It  was  with  great  difficulty  the  worthy 
priest  of  the  parish  had  succeeded  in  dividing  the  secular 
from  the  holy  customs  of  the  time,  and  thus  allowing  the 
pilgrims,  as  all  were  called  on  that  day,  an  uninterrupted 
period  for  their  devotions.  He  was  firm  and  resolute,  how- 
ever, in  his  purpose,  and  spared  no  pains  to  effect  it :  men- 
acing this  one,  persuading  that ;  suiting  the  measure  of 
his  arguments  to  the  comprehension  of  each,  he  either  cajoled 
or  coerced,  as  the  circumstance  might  warrant.  His  first 
care  was  to  remove  all  the  temptations  to  dissipation  and 
excess ;  and  for  this  purpose  he  banished  every  show  and 
exhibition,  and  every  tent  where  gambling  and  drinking  went 
forward.  His  next,  a  more  difficult  task,  was  the  exclusion 
of  all  those  doubtful  characters  who  in  every  walk  of  life 
are  suggestive  of  even  more  vice  than  they  embody  in  them- 
selves. These,  however,  abandoned  the  place  of  their  own 
accord,  so  soon  as  they  discovered  how  few  were  the  induce- 
ments to  remain ;  until  at  length,  by  a  tacit  understanding, 
it  seemed  arranged  that  the  day  of  penance  and  mortifica- 
tion should  suffer  neither  molestation  nor  interruption  from 
those  indisposed  to  partake  of  its  benefits.  So  rigid  was  the 
priest  in  exacting  compliance  in  this  matter,  that  he  com- 
pelled the  tents  to  be  struck  by  daybreak,  except  by  those 
few  trusted  and  privileged  individuals  whose  ministerings 
to  human  wants  were  permitted  during  the  day  of  sanctity. 

And  thus  the  whole  picture  was  suddenly  changed.  The 
wild  and  riotous  uproar  of  the  fair,  the  tumult  of  voices  and 
music,  dancing,  drinking,  and  fighting,  were  gone ;  and  the 
low  monotonous  sound  of  the  pilgrims'  prayers  was  "heard,  as 


THE   SECOND  ERA.  201 

they  moved  along  upon  their  knees  to  some  holy  well  or 
shrine,  to  offer  up  a  prayer,  or  return  a  thanksgiving  for 
blessings  bestowed.  The  scene  was  a  strange  and  pictur- 
esque one ;  the  long  lines  of  kneeling  figures,  where  the  rich 
scarlet  cloak  of  the  women  predominated,  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  each  other  as  they  wended  their  way  to  the  destined 
altar;  their  muttered  words  blending  with  the  louder  and 
more  boisterous  appeals  of  the  mendicants,  who,  stationed 
at  every  convenient  angle  or  turning,  besieged  each  devotee 
with  unremitting  entreaty,  —  deep  and  heartfelt  devotion  in 
every  face,  every  lineament  and  feature  impressed  with  re- 
ligious zeal  and  piety ;  but  still,  as  group  met  group  going 
and  returning,  they  interchanged  their  greetings  between 
their  prayers,  and  mingled  the  worldly  salutations  with 
aspirations  heavenward;  and  their  ''Paters"  and  "  Aves " 
and  "Credos"  were  blended  with  inquiries  for  the  "  chil- 
der,"  or  questions  about  the  "  crops." 

''Isn't  that  Owen  Connor,  avich,  that's  going  there, 
towards  the  Yallow-well  ?  "  said  an  old  crone,  as  she  ceased 
to  count  her  beads. 

*'  You  're  right  enough,  Biddy  ;  't  is  himself,  and  no  other  ; 
it's  a  turn  he  took  to  devotion  since  he  grew  rich." 

"  Ayeh  !  ayeh  !  the  Lord  be  good  to  us  !  how  fond  we  all 
be  of  life,  when  we  've  the  bit  of  bacon  to  the  fore  !  "  And 
with  that  she  resumed  her  pious  avocations  with  redoubled 
energy,  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 

The  old  ladies  were  as  sharp-sighted  as  such  functionaries 
usually  are  in  any  sphere  of  society.  It  was  Owen  Connor 
himself,  performing  his  first  pilgrimage.  The  commands  of 
his  landlord  had  expressly  forbidden  him  to  engage  in  any 
disturbance  at  the  fair;  the  only  mode  of  complying  with 
which,  he  rightly  judged,  was  b^^  absenting  himself  altogether. 
How  this  conduct  was  construed  by  others,  we  have  briefly 
hinted  at.  As  for  himself,  poor  fellow,  if  a  day  of  mortifica- 
tion could  have  availed  him  anj'thing,  he  need  n't  have  ap- 
peared among  the  pilgrims ;  —  a  period  of  such  sorrow  and 
suffering  he  had  never  undergone  before.  But  in  justice  it 
must  be  confessed  it  was  devotion  of  a  very  questionable 
character  that  brought  him  there  that  morning.  Since  the 
fair-day,  Mary  Joyce  had  never  deigned  to  notice  him ;  and 


202  ST.   PATRICK'S  EVE. 

though  he  had  been  several  times  at  mass,  she  either  affected 
not  to  be  aware  of  his  presence,  or  designedly  looked  in 
another  direction.  The  few  words  of  greeting  she  once  gave 
him  on  every  Sunday  morning,  the  smile  she  bestowed, 
dwelt  the  whole  week  in  his  heart,  and  made  him  long  for 
the  return  of  the  time  when,  even  for  a  second  or  two,  she 
would  be  near,  and  speak  to  him.  He  was  not  slow  in  sup- 
posing how  the  circumstances  under  which  he  rescued  the 
landlord's  son  might  be  used  against  him  by  his  enemies ; 
and  he  well  knew  that  she  was  not  surrounded  by  any  others 
than  such.  It  was,  then,  with  a  heavy  heart  poor  Owen 
witnessed  how  fatally  his  improved  fortune  had  dashed  hopes 
far  dearer  than  all  worldly  advantage.  Not  only  did  the 
new  comforts  about  him  become  distasteful,  but  he  even 
accused  them  to  himself  as  the  source  of  all  his  present  ca- 
lamity ;  and  half  suspected  that  it  was  a  judgment  on  him 
for  receiving  a  reward  in  such  a  cause.  To  see  her,  to 
speak  to  her  if  possible,  was  now  his  wish,  morn  and 
night ;  to  tell  her  that  he  cared  more  for  one  look,  one 
glance,  than  for  all  the  favors  fortune  did  or  could  bestow, 
. —  this,  and  to  undeceive  her  as  to  any  knowledge  of  young 
Leslie's  rudeness  to  herself,  was  the  sole  aim  of  his  thoughts. 
Stationing  himself  therefore  in  an  angle  of  the  ruined  church, 
which  formed  one  of  the  resting-places  for  prayer,  he  waited 
for  hours  for  Mary's  coming,  and  at  last,  with  a  heart  half 
sickened  with  deferred  hope,  he  saw  her  pale  but  beautiful 
features,  shaded  by  the  large  blue  hood  of  her  cloak,  as 
with  downcast  eyes  she  followed  in  the  train. 

"Give  me  your  place,  acushla ;  God  will  reward  you  for 
it;  I'm  late  at  the  station,"  said  he  to  an  old,  ill-favored 
hag  that  followed  next  to  Mary ;  and  at  the  same  time,  to 
aid  his  request,  slipped  half  a  crown  into  her  hand. 

The  wrinkled  face  brightened  into  a  kind  of  wicked  in- 
telligence as  she  muttered  in  Irish:  " 'T  is  a  gould  guinea 
the  same  place  is  worth ;  but  I  '11  give  it  to  you  for  the  sake 
of  yer  people ;  "  and  at  the  same  time  pocketing  the  coin  in 
a  canvas  pouch,  among  relics  and  holy  clay,  she  moved  off 
to  admit  him  in  the  line. 

Owen's  heart  beat  almost  to  bui'sting,  as  he  found  himself 
so  close  to  Mary ;  and  all  his  former  impatience  to  justify 


THE   SECOND  EKA. 


himself,  and  to  speak  to  her,  fled  in  the  happiness  he  now 
enjoyed.     No  devotee  ever  regarded  the  relic  of  a  saint  with 


spot ;  and  ever,  as  he  was  ready  to  speak  to  her,  some  fear 
that  by  a  word  he  might  dispel  the  dream  of  bliss  he  rev- 
elled in,  stopped  him,  and  he  w^as  silent. 


204  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

It  was  as  the  evening  drew  near,  and  the  pilgrims  were 
turning  towards  the  lake,  beside  which,  at  a  small  thorn- 
tree,  the  last  "station"  of  all  was  performed,  that  an  old 
beggar,  whose  importunity  suffered  none  to  escape,  blocked 
up  the  path  and  prevented  Mary  from  proceeding  until  she 
had  given  him  something.  All  her  money  had  been  long 
since  bestowed ;  and  she  said  so,  hurriedly,  and  endeavored 
to  move  forward. 

"Let  Owen  Connor  behind  you  give  it,  acushla !  He's 
rich  now,  and  can  well  afford  it,"  said  the  cripple. 

She  turned  round  at  the  words ;  the  action  was  involun- 
tary, and  their  eyes  met.  There  are  glances  which  reveal 
the  whole  secret  of  a  lifetime ;  there  are  looks  which  dwell 
in  the  heart  longer  and  deeper  than  words.  Their  eyes  met 
for  merely  a  few  seconds ;  and  while  in  her  face  offended 
pride  was  depicted,  poor  Owen's  sorrow-struck  and  broken 
aspect  spoke  of  long  suffering  and  grief  so  powerfully  that, 
ere  she  turned  awa}^  her  heart  had  half  forgiven  him. 

"  You  wrong  me  hardly,  Mary,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  broken 
voice,  as  the  train  moved  on.  "The  Lord,  he  knows  my 
heart  this  blessed  day!  Pater  noster  qui  es  in  coeUs  /  ^' 
added  he,  louder,  as  he  perceived  that  his  immediate  fol- 
lower had  ceased  his  prayers  to  listen  to  him.  "He  knows 
that  I'd  rather  live  and  died  the  poorest,  — Beneficed  tuum 
nomen!'*  cried  he,  louder.  And  then,  turning  abruptly, 
said,  — 

"  Av  it's  plazing  to  you,  sir,  don't  be  trampin'  on  my 
heels.     I  can't  mind  my  devotions,  an'  one  so  near  me." 

"It's  not  so  unconvaynient,  maybe,  when  they're  afore 
you,"  muttered  the  old  fellow,  with  a  grin  of  sly  malice. 
And  though  Owen  overheard  the  taunt,  he  felt  no  inclina- 
tion to  notice  it. 

"Four  long  years  I've  loved  ye,  Mary  Joj^ce  ;  and  the 
sorra  more  encouragement  I  ever  got  nor  the  smile  ye  used 
to  give  me.  And  if  ye  take  that  from  me,  now  —  Are  ye 
listening  to  me,  Mary?  do  ye  hear  me,  asthore?  —  Bad 
scran  to  ye,  ye  old  varmint !  why  don't  ye  keep  behind  ? 
How  is  a  man  to  save  his  sowl,  an'  you  making  him  blas- 
phame  every  minit?" 

"I  was  only  listenin'  to  that  iligant  prayer  ye  were  say- 
ing," said  the  old  fellow,  dryly. 


THE  SECOND  ERA.  205 

*'*Tis  betther  you'd  mind  your  own,  then,"  said  Owen, 
fiercely;  "or,  by  the  blessed  day,  I'll  teach  ye  a  new 
penance  ye  never  heerd  of  afore !  " 

The  man  dropped  back,  frightened  at  the  sudden  deter- 
mination these  words  were  uttered  in ;  and  Owen  resumed 
his  place. 

••'I  may  never  see  ye  again,  Mary.  'T  is  the  last  time 
you'll  hear  me  spake  to  you.  I'll  lave  the  ould  man. 
God  look  to  him !  I  '11  lave  him  now,  and  go  be  a  sodger. 
Here  we  are  now,  coming  to  this  holy  well ;  and  I  '11  swear 
an  oath  before  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  that  before  this  time 
to-morrow  —  " 

"  How  is  one  to  mind  their  prayers  at  all,  Owen  Connor,  if 
ye  be  talking  to  yourself  so  loud  ?  "  said  Mary,  in  a  whisper, 
but  one  which  lost  not  a  syllable,  as  it  fell  on  Owen's  ear. 

"  My  own  sweet  darling,  the  light  of  my  eyes,  ye  are !  " 
cried  he,  as  with  clasped  hands  he  muttered  blessings  upon 
her  head,  and  with  such  vehemence  of  gesture  and  such 
unfeigned  signs  of  rapture  as  to  evoke  remarks  from  some 
beggars  near,  highly  laudatory  of  his  zeal. 

"  Look  at  the  fine  young  man  there,  prayin'  wid  all  his 
might.  Ayeh,  the  saints  give  ye  the  benefit  of  your  pil- 
grimage !  " 

"  Mnsha !  but  ye  'r  a  credit  to  the  station  ;  ye  put  yer 
sowl  in  it,  anyhow ! "  said  an  old  Jezebel,  whose  hard 
features  seemed  to  defy  emotion. 

Owen  looked  up ;  and  directly  in  front  of  him,  with  his 
back  against  a  tree,  and  his  arms  crossed  on  his  breast, 
stood  Phil  Joyce ;  his  brow  was  dark  with  passion,  and  his 
eyes  glared  like  those  of  a  maniac.  A  cold  thrill  ran 
through  Owen's  heart,  lest  the  anger  thus  displayed  should 
fall  on  Mary ;  for  he  well  knew  with  what  tyranny  the  poor 
girl  was  treated.  He  therefore  took  the  moment  of  the 
pilgrims'  approach  to  the  holy  tree,  to  move  from  his  place, 
and,  by  a  slightly  circuitous  path,  came  up  to  where  Joyce 
was  standing. 

"I've  a  word  for  you,  Phil  Joyce,"  said  he,  in  a  low 
voice,  where  every  trace  of  emotion  was  carefully  subdued. 
"  Can  I  spake  to  you  here?  " 

Owen's  wan  and  sickly  aspect,  if  it  did  not  shock,  it  at 


206  ST.   PATRICK'S   EVE. 

least  astonished  Joyce,  for  he  looked  at  him  for  some 
seconds  without  speaking;  then  said,  half  rudely,  — 

"Ay,  here  will  do  as  w^ell  as  anywhere,  since  ye  did  n't 
like  to  say  it  yesterday." 

There  was  no  mistaking  this  taunt;  the  sneer  on  Owen's 
want  of  courage  was  too  plain  to  be  misconstrued;  and 
although  for  a  moment  he  looked  as  if  disposed  to  resent 
it,  he  merely  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  replied:  "It 
is  not  about  that  I  came  to  speak;  it's  about  your  sister, 
Mary  Joyce." 

Phil  turned  upon  him  a  stare  of  amazement,  as  quickly 
followed  by  a  laugh,  whose  insulting  mockery  made  Owen's 
cheek  crimson  with  shame. 

"True,  enough,  Phil  Joyce;  I  know  your  meanin'  well," 
said  he,  with  an  immense  effort  to  subdue  his  passion.  "I  'm 
a  poor  cottier,  wid  a  bit  of  mountan  land  —  sorra  more  — 
and  has  no  right  to  look  up  to  one  like  her.  But  listen  to 
me,  Phil,"  and  here  he  grasped  his  arm,  and  spoke  with  a 
thick  guttural  accent, —  "listen  to  me!  Av  the  girl  was  n't 
what  she  is,  but  only  your  sister,  I  'd  scorn  her  as  I  do 
yourself;"  and,  with  that,  he  pushed  him  from  him  with  a 
force  that  made  him  stagger.  Before  he  had  well  recovered, 
Owen  was  again  at  his  side,  and  continued:  "And  now, 
one  word  more,  and  all 's  ended  between  us.  For  you,  and 
your  likings  or  mislikings,  I  never  cared  a  rush;  but  'tis 
Mary  herself  refused  me,  so  there  's  no  more  about  it;  only 
don't  be  wreaking  your  temper  on  her,  for  she  has  no  fault 
in  it!  " 

"Av  a  sister  of  mine  ever  bestowed  a  thought  on  the  likes 
o'  ye,  I'd  give  her  the  outside  of  the  door  this  night,"  said 
Joyce,  whose  courage  now  rose  from  seeing  several  of  his 
faction  attracted  to  the  spot,  by  observing  that  he  and  Con- 
nor were  conversing.  " 'T  is  a  disgrace, — divil  a  less 
than  a  disgrace  to  spake  of  it!  " 

"Well,  we  won't  do  so  any  more,  plaze  God!"  said 
Owen,  with  a  smile  of  very  fearful  meaning.  "It  will  be 
another  little  matter  we  '11  have  to  settle  when  we  meet  next. 
There's  a  score  there  not  paid  off  yet;"  and  at  the  word 
he  lifted  his  hat,  and  disclosed  the  deep  mark  of  the  scarce- 
closed  gash  on  his  forehead;  "and  so  good-bye  to  ye." 


THE  SECOND   ERA.  207 

A  rude  nod  from  Phil  Joyce  was  all  the  reply,  and  Owen 
turned  homewards. 

If  prosperity  could  suggest  the  frame  of  mind  to  enjoy 
it,  the  rich  would  always  be  happy;  but  such  is  not  the  dis- 
pensation of  Providence.  Acquisition  is  but  a  stage  on  the 
road  of  ambition;  it  lightens  the  way,  but  brings  the  goal 
no  nearer.  Owen  never  returned  to  his  mountain-home  with 
a  sadder  heart.  He  passed,  without  regarding  them,  the 
little  fields,  now  green  with  the  coming  spring ;  he  bestowed 
no  look  nor  thought  upon  the  herds  that  already  speckled 
the  mountain-side;  disappointment  had  embittered  his 
spirit;  and  even  love  itself  now  gave  way  to  faction-hate, 
the  old  and  cherished  animosity  of  party. 

If  the  war  of  rival  factions  did  not  originally  spring 
from  the  personal  quarrels  of  men  of  rank  and  station,  who 
stimulated  their  followers  and  adherents  to  acts  of  aoofres- 
sion  and  reprisal,  it  assuredly  was  perpetuated,  if  not  with 
their  concurrence,  at  least  permission ;  and  many  were  not 
ashamed  to  avow  that  in  these  savage  encounters  the  ''  bad 
blood"  of  the  country  was  "let  out"  at  less  cost  and  trouble 
than  by  any  other  means.  When  legal  proceedings  were 
recurred  to,  the  landlord,  in  his  capacity  of  magistrate, 
maintained  the  cause  of  his  tenants;  and,  however  dis- 
posed to  lean  heavily  on  them  himself,  in  the  true  spirit 
of  tyranny  he  opposed  pressure  from  an}'  other  hand  than 
his  own.  The  people  were  grateful  for  this  advocacy,  — 
far  more,  indeed,  than  they  often  proved  for  less  question- 
able kindness.  They  regarded  the  law  with  so  much  dread 
—  they  awaited  its  decisions  with  such  uncertainty  —  that 
he  who  would  conduct  them  through  its  mazes  was  indeed 
a  friend.  But  was  the  administration  of  justice  some  forty 
or  fifty  years  back  in  Ireland  such  as  to  excite  or  justify 
other  sentiments?  Was  it  not  this  tampering  with  right 
and  wrong,  this  recurrence  to  patronage,  that  made  legal 
redress  seem  an  act  of  meanness  and  cowardice  among  the 
people?  No  cause  was  decided  upon  its  own  merits.  The 
influence  of  the  great  man,  —  the  interest  he  was  disposed 
to  take  in  the  case,  the  momentary  condition  of  county 
politics,  with  the  general  character  of  the  individuals  at 
issue,  usually  determined   the  matter;  and  it  could  scarcely 


208  ST.   PATRICK'S   EYE. 

be  expected  that  a  triumph  thus  obtained  should  have  exer- 
cised auy  peaceful  sway  among  the  people. 

''He  would  n't  be  so  bould  to-day  av  his  landlord  was  n't 
to  the  fore,"  was  Owen  Connor's  oft-repeated  reflection,  as 
he  ascended  the  narrow  pathway  towards  his  cabin;  "'tis 
the  good  backing  makes  us  brave,  God  help  us!"  From 
that  hour  forward  the  gay  light-hearted  peasant  became 
dark,  moody,  and  depressed ;  the  very  circumstances  which 
might  be  supposed  calculated  to  have  suggested  a  happier 
frame  of  mind,  only  increased  and  embittered  his  gloom. 
His  prosperity  made  daily  labor  no  longer  a  necessity.  In- 
dustry, it  is  true,  would  have  brought  more  comforts  about 
him,  and  surrounded  him  with  more  appliances  of  enjoy- 
ment; but  long  habits  of  endurance  had  made  him  easily 
satisfied  on  this  score,  and  there  were  no  examples  for  his 
imitation  which  should  make  him  strive  for  better.  So  far, 
then,  from  the  landlord's  benevolence  working  for  good,  its 
operation  was  directly  the  reverse;  his  leniency  had,  indeed, 
taken  away  the  hardship  of  a  difficult  and  onerous  payment, 
but  the  relief  suggested  no  desire  for  an  equivalent  ameliora- 
tion of  condition.  The  first  pleasurable  emotions  of  grati- 
tude over,  the}"  soon  recurred  to  the  old  customs  in  every- 
thing, and  gradually  fell  back  into  all  the  observances  of 
their  former  state,  the  only  difference  being  that  less  exer- 
tion on  their  parts  was  now  called  for  than  before. 

Had  the  landlord  been  a  resident  on  his  property,  ac- 
quainting himself  daily  and  hourly  with  the  condition  of  his 
tenants,  holding  up  examples  for  their  imitation,  rewarding 
the  deserving,  discountenancing  the  unworth}",  extending 
the  benefits  of  education  among  the  young,  and  fostering 
habits  of  order  and  good  conduct  among  all,  Owen  would 
have  striven  among  the  first  for  a  place  of  credit  and  honor, 
and  speedily  have  distinguished  himself  above  his  equals. 
But,  alas!  no;  Mr.  Leslie,  when  not  abroad,  lived  in  P^ng- 
land.  Of  his  Irish  estates  he  knew  nothing,  save  through 
the  half-yearly  accounts  of  his  agent.  He  was  conscious 
of  excellent  intentions;  he  was  a  kind,  even  a  benevolent 
man,  and  in  the  society  of  his  set  remarkable  for  more  than 
ordinary  sympathies  with  the  poor.  To  have  ventured  on 
any  reflection  on  a  landlord  before  him  would  have  been 
deemed  a  downright  absurdity. 


THE   SECOND  ERA.  209 

He  was  a  living  refutation  of  all  such  calumnies;  yet  how 
was  it  that,  in  the  district  he  owned,  the  misery  of  the  peo- 
ple was  a  thing  to  shudder  at,  —  that  there  were  hovels  exca- 
vated in  the  bogs,  within  which  human  beings  lingered  on 
between  life  and  death,  their  existence  like  some  terrible 
passage  in  a  dream, —  that  beneath  these  frail  roofs  famine 
and  fever  dwelt,  until  suffering,  and  starvation  itself,  had 
ceased  to  prey  upon  minds  on  which  no  ray  of  hope  ever 
shone?  Simply,  he  did  not  know  of  these  things;  he  saw 
them  not;  he  never  heard  of  them.  He  was  aware  that  sea- 
sons of  unusual  distress  occurred,  and  that  a  more  than 
ordinary  degree  of  want  was  experienced  by  a  failure  of  the 
potato  crop ;  but  on  these  occasions  he  read  his  name  with 
a  subscription  of  a  hundred  pounds  annexed,  and  was  not 
that  a  receipt  in  full  for  all  the  claims  of  conscience?  He 
ran  his  eyes  over  a  list  in  which  royal  and  princely  titles 
figured,  and  he  expressed  himself  grateful  for  so  much  sym- 
pathy with  Ireland !  But  did  he  ask  himself  the  question, 
whether,  if  he  had  resided  among  his  people,  such  necessities 
for  almsgiving  had  ever  arisen?  Did  he  inquire  how  far 
his  own  desertion  of  his  tenantry,  his  ignorance  of  their 
state,  his  indifference  to  their  condition,  had  fostered  these 
growing  evils?  Could  he  acquit  himself  of  the  guilt  of 
deriving  all  the  appliances  of  his  ease  and  enjoyment  from 
those  whose  struggles  to  supply  them  were  made  under  the 
pressure  of  disease  and  hunger?  Was  unconsciousness  of 
all  this  an  excuse  sufficient  to  stifle  remorse?  Oh,  it  is  not 
the  moneyed  wealth  dispensed  by  the  resident  great  man; 
it  is  not  the  stream  of  affluence,  flowing  in  its  thousand  tiny 
rills,  and  fertilizing  as  it  goes,  we  want.  It  is  far  more 
the  kindly  influence  of  those  virtues  which  find  their  con- 
genial soil  in  easy  circumstances;  benevolence,  sympathy, 
succor  in  sickness,  friendly  counsel  in  distress,  timely  aid 
in  trouble,  encouragement  to  the  faint-hearted,  caution  to 
the  over-eager:  these  are  gifts  which,  giving,  make  the  be- 
stower  richer;  and  these  are  the  benefits  which,  better  than 
gold,  foster  the  charities  of  life  among  a  people,  and  bind 
up  the  human  family  in  a  holy  and  indissoluble  league.  No 
benevolence  from  afar,  no  well  wishings  from  distant  lands, 
compensate  for  the  want  of  them.     To  neglect  such  duties 

VOL.    II. —  14 


iilO  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

is  to  fail  in  the  great  social  compact  by  which  the  rich  and 
poor  are  united,  and,  what  some  may  deem  of  more  moment 
still,  to  resign  the  rightful  influence  of  property  into  the 
hands  of  dangerous  and  designing  men. 

It  is  in  vain  to  suppose  that  traditionary  deservings  will 
elicit  gratitude  when  the  present  generation  are  neglectful. 
On  the  contrary,  the  comparison  of  the  once  resident,  now 
absent  landlord  excites  very  different  feelings ;  the  murmur- 
ings  of  discontent  swell  into  the  louder  language  of  menace ; 
and  evils,  over  which  no  protective  power  of  human  origin 
could  avail,  are  ascribed  to  that  class,  who,  forgetful  of  one 
great  duty,  are  now  accused  of  causing  every  calamity.  If 
not  present  to  exercise  the  duties  their  position  demands, 
their  absence  exaggerates  every  accusation  against  them; 
and  from  the  very  men,  too,  who  have,  by  the  fact  of  their 
desertion,  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  influence  that  should 
be  theirs. 

Owen  felt  this  desertion  sorely.  Had  Mr.  Leslie  been  at 
home,  he  would  at  once  have  had  recourse  to  him.  Mr. 
French,  the  agent,  lived  on  the  property,  —  but  Mr.  French 
was  a  "hard  man,"  and  never  liked  the  Connors;  indeed, 
he  never  forgave  them  for  not  relinquishing  the  mountain- 
farm  they  held,  in  exchange  for  another  he  offered  them,  as 
he  was  anxious  to  preserve  the  mountain  for  his  own  shoot- 
ing. At  the  time  we  speak  of,  intemperance  was  an  Irish 
vice,  and  one  which  prevailed  largely.  Whiskey  entered 
into  every  circumstance  and  relation  of  life.  It  cemented 
friendships  and  ratified  contracts ;  it  celebrated  the  birth  of 
the  newly  born ;  it  consoled  the  weeping  relatives  over  the 
grave  of  the  departed;  it  was  a  welcome  and  a  bond  of 
kindness,  and  as  the  stirrup-cup,  was  the  last  pledge  at 
parting.  Men  commemorated  their  prosperity  by  drink, 
and  none  dared  to  face  gloomy  fortune  without  it.  Owen 
Connor  had  recourse  to  it,  as  to  a  friend  that  never  betrayed. 
The  easy  circumstances,  in  comparison  with  many  others, 
he  enjoyed,  left  him  both  means  and  leisure  for  such  a 
course;  and  few  days  passed  without  his  paying  a  visit  to 
the  "  shebeen-house  "  of  tlie  village.  If  the  old  man  noticed 
this  new  habit,  his  old  prejudices  were  too  strong  to  make 
him  prompt  in  condemning  it.     Indeed,  he  rather  regarded 


THE  SECOND  ERA.  211 

it  as  a  natural  consequence  of  their  bettered  fortune,  that 
Owen  should  frequent  these  places ;  and  as  he  never  returned 
actually  drunk,  and  always  brought  back  with  him  the  cur- 
rent rumors  of  the  da}^,  as  gathered  from  newspapers  and 
passing  gossip,  his  father  relied  on  such  scraps  of  informa- 
tion for  his  evening's  amusement  over  the  lire. 

It  was  somewhat  later  than  usual  that  Owen  was  return- 
ing home  one  night,  and  the  old  man,  anxious  and  uneasy 
at  his  absence,  had  wandered  part  of  the  way  to  meet  him, 
when  he  saw  him  coming  slowly  forward,  with  that  heavy 
weariness  of  step  deep  grief  and  pre-occupation  inspire. 
When  the  young  man  had  come  within  speaking  distance  of 
his  father,  he  halted  suddenly,  and,  looking  up  at  him,  ex- 
claimed, "There  's  sorrowful  news  for  ye  to-night,  father!  " 

"I  knew  it!  I  knew  it  well!  "  said  the  old  man,  as  he 
clasped  his  hands  before  him,  and  seemed  preparing  himself 
to  bear  the  shock  with  courage.  "I  had  a  dhrame  of  it  last 
night;  and  'tis  death,  wherever  it  is." 

''You  're  right  there.     The  master 's  dead!  " 

Not  another  word  was  spoken  by  either,  as  side  by  side 
they  slowly  ascended  the  mountain-path.  It  was  only  when 
seated  at  the  fireside  that  Owen  regained  sufficient  collected- 
ness  to  detail  the  particulars  he  had  learned  in  the  village. 
Mr.  Leslie  had  died  of  the  cholera  at  Paris.  The  malady 
had  just  broken  out  in  that  cit}^,  and  he  was  among  its 
earliest  victims.  The  terrors  which  that  dreadful  pestilence 
inspired,  reached  every  remote  part  of  Europe,  and  at  last, 
with  all  the  aggravated  horrors  of  its  devastating  career, 
swept  across  Ireland.  The  same  letter  which  brought  the 
tidings  of  Mr.  Leslie's  death,  was  the  first  intelligence  of 
the  plague.  A  scourge  so  awful  needed  not  the  fears  of  the 
ignorant  to  exaggerate  its  terrors ;  yet  men  seemed  to  vie 
with  each  other  in  their  dreadful  conjectures  regarding  it. 

All  the  sad  interest  the  landlord's  sudden  death  would 
have  occasioned  under  other  circumstances  was  merged  in 
the  fearful  malady  of  which  he  died.  Men  heard  wuth 
almost  apathy  of  the  events  that  were  announced  as  likely 
to  succeed  in  the  management  of  the  property,  and  only 
listened  with  eagerness  if  the  pestilence  were  mentioned. 
Already  its  arrival  in  England  was  declared ;  and  the  last 


212  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

lingering  hope  of  the  devotee  was,  that  the  hol}^  island  of 
St.  Patrick  might  escape  its  ravages.  Few  cared  to  hear 
what  a  few  weeks  back  had  been  welcome  news,  —  that  the 
old  agent  was  to  be  dismissed,  and  a  new  one  appointed. 
The  speculations  which  once  would  have  been  rife  enough, 
were  now  silent.  There  was  but  one  terrible  topic  in  every 
heart  and  on  every  tongue,  —  the  cholera. 

The  inhabitants  of  great  cities,  with  wide  sources  of  infor- 
mation available,  and  free  conversation  with  each  other,  can 
scarcely  estimate  the  additional  degree  of  terror  the  prospect 
of  a  dreadful  epidemic  inspires  among  the  dwellers  in  unfre- 
quented rural  districts.  The  cloud,  not  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand  at  first,  gradually  expands  itself,  until  the  whole  sur- 
face of  earth  is  darkened  by  its  shadow.  The  business  of 
life  stands  still ;  the  care  for  the  morrow  is  lost ;  the  prone- 
ness  to  indulge  in  the  gloomiest  anticipations  common 
calamity  invariably  suggests,  heightens  the  real  evil,  and 
disease  finds  its  victims  more  than  doomed  at  its  first 
approach.  In  this  state  of  agonizing  suspense,  when  rumors 
arose  to  be  contradicted,  reasserted,  and  again  disproved, 
came  the  tidings  that  the  cholera  was  in  Dublin.  The  same 
week  it  had  broken  out  in  many  other  places ;  at  last  the 
report  went,  that  a  poor  man  who  had  gone  into  the  market 
of  Gal  way  to  sell  his  turf  was  found  dead  on  the  steps  of 
the  chapel.  Then  followed  the  whole  array  of  precautionary 
measures,  and  advices,  and  boards  of  health.  Then  it  was 
announced  the  plague  was  raging  fearfully, —  the  hospitals 
crowded,  death  in  every  street. 

Terrible  and  appalling  as  these  tidings  were,  the  fearful 
fact  never  realized  itself  in  the  little  district  we  speak  of, 
until  a  death  occurred  in  the  town  close  by.  He  was  a 
shopkeeper  in  Oughterarde,  and  known  to  the  whole  neigh- 
borhood. This  solitary  instance  brought  with  it  more  of 
dreadful  meaning  than  all  the  shock  of  distant  calamity. 
The  heart-rending  wail  of  those  who  listened  to  the  news 
smote  many  more  with  the  cold  tremor  of  coming  death. 
Another  case  soon  followed,  -a  third,  and  a  fourth  succeeded, 
all  fatal ;  and  the  disease  was  among  them. 

It  is  only  when  a  malady,  generally  fatal,  is  associated 
with  the  terrors  of  contagion,  that  the  measure  of  horror  and 


THE  SECOND  ERA.  213 

dread  flows  over.  When  the  sympathy  which  suffering  sick- 
ness calls  for  is  yielded  in  a  spirit  of  almost  despair,  and 
the  ministerings  to  the  dying  are  but  the  prelude  to  the 
same  state,  then,  indeed,  death  is  armed  with  all  his  terrors. 
No  people  are  more  remarkable  for  the  charities  of  the  sick- 
bed than  the  poor  Irish.  It  is  with  them  less  a  sentiment 
than  a  religious  instinct;  and  though  they  Avatched  the 
course  of  the  pestilence,  and  saw  few,  if  any,  escape  death 
who  took  it,  their  devotion  never  failed  them.  They  prac- 
tised, with  such  skill  as  they  possessed,  every  remedy  in 
turn.  They  who  trembled  but  an  hour  before  at  the  word 
when  spoken,  faced  the  danger  itself  with  a  bold  heart ;  and 
while  the  insidious  signs  of  the  disease  were  already  upon 
them,  while  their  wearied  limbs  and  clammy  hands  be- 
spoke that  their  own  hour  was  come,  they  did  not  desist 
from  their  good  offices  until  past  the  power  to  render 
them. 

It  was  spring-time,  the  season  more  than  usually  mild, 
the  prospects  of  the  year  were  already  favorable,  and  all  the 
signs  of  abundance  rife  in  the  land.  What  a  contrast  the 
scene  without  to  that  presented  by  the  interior  of  each  dwell- 
ing! There  death  and  dismay  were  met  with  at  every  step. 
The  old  man  and  the  infant  prostrated  by  the  same  stroke; 
the  strong  and  vigorous  youth  who  went  forth  to  labor  in 
the  morning,  at  noon  a  feeble,  broken-spirited  creature,  at 
sunset  a  corpse. 

As  the  minds  and  temperaments  of  men  were  fashioned, 
so  did  fear  operate  upon  them.  Some  it  made  reckless  and 
desperate,  careless  of  what  should  happen,  and  indifferent 
to  every  measure  of  precaution;  some  became  paralyzed 
with  fear,  and  seemed  unable  to  make  an  effort  for  safety, 
were  it  even  attainable;  others,  exaggerating  every  care  and 
caution,  lived  a  life  of  unceasing  terror  and  anxiety;  while 
a  few  —  they  were,  unfortunately,  a  very  few  —  summoned 
courage  to  meet  the  danger  in  a  spirit  of  calm  and  resolute 
determination ;  while  in  their  reformed  habits  it  might  be 
seen  how  thoroughly  they  felt  that  their  own  hour  might 
be  a  brief  one.  Among  these  was  Owen  Connor.  From 
the  day  the  malady  appeared  in  the  neighborhood,  he  never 
entered  the  public-house  of  the  village,  but,  devoting  himself 


21-i  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

to  the  work  of  kindness  the  emergency  called  for,  went 
from  cabin  to  cabin,  rendering  every  service  in  his  power. 
The  poorest  depended  on  him  for  the  supply  of  such  little 
comforts  as  they  possessed,  for  at  every  market-day  he  sold 
a  sheep  or  a  lamb  to  provide  them ;  the  better-off  looked  to 
him  for  advice  and  counsel,  following  his  directions  as  im- 
plicitly as  though  he  were  a  physician  of  great  skill.  All 
recognized  his  devotedness  in  their  cause,  and  his  very 
name  was  a  talisman  for  courage  in  every  humble  cabin 
around.  His  little  ass-cart,  the  only  wheeled  vehicle  that 
ever  ascended  the  mountain  where  he  lived,  was  seen  each 
morning  moving  from  door  to  door,  while  Owen  brought 
either  some  small  purchase  he  was  commissioned  to  make 
at  Oughterarde,  or  left  with  the  more  humble  some  offering 
of  his  own  benevolence. 

''There's  the  salt  ye  bid  me  buy,  Mary  Cooney;  and 
here 's  fourpence  out  of  it,  —  do  ye  all  be  well,  still?  " 
"We  are,  and  thank  ye,  Owen." 
"The  Lord  keep  ye  so!  How  's  Ned  Daly?  " 
"He's  off,  Owen  dear;  his  brother  James  is  making  the 
coffin;  poor  boy,  he  looks  very  weak  himself  this  morning." 
The  cart  moved  on,  and  at  length  stopped  at  a  small  hovel 
built  against  the  side  of  a  clay  ditch.  It  was  a  mere 
assemblage  of  wet  sods  with  the  grass  still  growing,  and 
covered  by  some  branches  of  trees  and  loose  straw  over  them. 
Owen  halted  the  ass  at  the  opening  of  the  miserable  den, 
through  which  the  smoke  now  issued,  and  at  the  same 
moment  a  man,  stooping  double  to  permit  him  to  pass  out 
into  the  open  air,  came  forward;,  he  was  apparently  about 
fifty  3^ears  of  age,  —  his  real  age  was  not  thirty ;  originally 
a  well-formed  and  stout-built  fellow,  starvation  and  want 
had  made  him  a  mere  skeleton.  His  clothes  were  a  ragged 
coat,  which  he  wore  next  his  skin,  for  shirt  he  had  none, 
and  a  pair  of  worn  corduroy  trousers ;  he  had  neither  hat, 
shoes,  nor  stockings;  but  still  all  these  signs  of  destitu- 
tion were  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  misery  displayed 
in  his  countenance.  Except  that  his  lip  trembled  with  a 
convulsive  shiver,  not  a  feature  moved;  the  cheeks  were 
livid  and  flattened ;  the  dull  gray  eyes  had  lost  all  the  light 
of  intelligence,  and  stared  vacantly  before  him. 


THE   SECOND  ERA. 


215 


"  Well,  Martin,  how  is  she  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  Owen  dear,"  said  he,  in  a  faltering  voice; 
'* maybe  't  is  sleeping  she  is." 

Owen  followed  him  within  the  hut,  and  stooping  down  to 
the  fire,  lighted  a  piece  of  bogwood  to  enable  him  to  see. 


On  the  ground,  covered  onl}^  by  a  ragged  frieze  coat,  lay  a 
young  woman  quite  dead;  her  arm,  emaciated  and  livid, 
was  wrapped  round  a  little  child  of  about  three  years  old, 
still  sleeping  on  the  cold  bosom  of  its  mother. 

"You  must  take  little  Patsy  away,"  said  Owen  in  a  whis- 
per, as  he  lifted  the  boy  in  his  arms;  ''''she  's  happy  now." 


216  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

The  young  man  fell  upon  his  knees  and  kissed  the  corpse, 
but  spoke  not  a  word ;  grief  had  stupefied  his  senses,  and 
he  was  like  one  but  half  awake.  ''Come  with  me,  Martin; 
come  with  me,  and  I  '11  settle  everything  for  you."  He 
obeyed  mechanically,  and  before  quitting  the  cabin,  placed 
some  turf  upon  the  fire,  as  he  was  wont  to  do.  The  action 
was  a  simple  one,  but  it  brought  the  tears  into  Owen's  eyes. 
"I  '11  take  care  of  Patsy  for  j^ou  till  you  want  him.  He's 
fond  of  me  of  ould,  and  won't  be  lonesome  with  me;  "  and 
Owen  wrapped  the  child  in  his  great-coat,  and  moved 
forwards. 

When  they  had  advanced  a  few  paces,  Martin  stopped 
suddenly,  and  muttered,  "She  has  nothing  to  drink  I  "  and 
then,  as  if  remembering  vaguely  what  had  happened,  added, 
"It 's  a  long  sleep,  Ellen  dear  I  " 

Owen  gave  the  directions  for  the  funeral,  and  leaving  poor 
Martin  in  the  house  of  one  of  the  cottiers  near,  where  he  sat 
down  beside  the  hearth  and  never  uttered  a  word,  he  went 
on  his  way  with  little  Patsy  still  asleep  within  his  arms. 

"Where  are  you  going,  Peggy?"  asked  Owen,  as  an  old 
lame  woman  moved  past  as  rapidly  as  her  infirmity  would 
permit;  "you're  in  a  hurry  this  morning." 

"So  I  am,  Owen  Connor;  these  is  the  busy  times  wid  me. 
I  streaked  five  to-day,  early  as  it  is,  and  I'm  going  now 
over  to  Phil  Joyce's.  What 's  the  matter  wid  yourself, 
Owen?  Sit  down,  avich,  and  taste  this." 

"What's  wrong  at  Phil's?"  asked  Owen,  with  a  choking 
fulness  in  his  throat. 

"  It 's  the  little  brother  he  has  ;  Billy  's  got  it,  they  say." 

"  Is  Mary  Joyce  well  —  did  ye  hear  ?  " 

"  Errah !  she's  well  enough  now,  but  she  may  be  low 
before  night,"  muttered  the  crone ;  while  she  added,  with  a 
fiendish  laugh,  "her  purty  faytures  won't  save  her  now,  no 
more  nor  the  rest  of  us." 

"There's  a  bottle  of  port  wine,  Peggy;  take  it  with  ye, 
dear.  'T  is  the  finest  thing  at  all,  I  'm  tould,  for  keeping  it 
off,  —  get  Mary  to  take  a  glass  of  it ;  but  mind  now,  for  the 
love  o'  ye,  never  say  it  was  me  gav  it.  There  's  bad  blood 
between  the  Joyces  and  me,  ye  understand." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  know  well  enough,"  said  the  hag,  clutching 


THE   SECOND  ERA.  217 

the  bottle  eagerly,  while,  opening  a  gate  on  the  roadside,  she 
hobbled  on  her  way  towards  Phil  Joyce's  cabin. 

It  was  near  evening  as  Owen  was  enabled  to  turn  home- 
wards ;  for  besides  having  a  great  many  places  to  visit,  he 
was  obliged  to  stop  twice  to  get  poor  Patsy  something  to 
eat,  the  little  fellow  being  almost  in  a  state  of  starvation. 
At  length  he  faced  towards  the  mountain,  and  with  a  sad 
heart  and  weary  step  plodded  along. 

"  Is  poor  Ellen  buried?  "  said  he,  as  he  passed  the  carpen- 
ter's door,  where  the  coffin  had  been  ordered. 

"  She 's  just  laid  in  the  mould  —  awhile  ago." 

*' I  hope  Martin  bears  up  better;  did  you  see  him 
lately?" 

"  This  is  for  him,"  said  the  carpenter,  striking  a  board 
with  his  hammer;   "he's  at  peace  now." 

"  Martin  !  sure  he  's  not  dead?  —  Martin  Neal,  I  mean." 

"So  do  I  too;  he  had  it  on  him  since  morning,  they 
say  ;  but  he  just  slipped  away  without  a  word  or  a  moan." 

"O  God,  be  good  to  us,  but  the  times  is  dreadful!" 
ejaculated  Owen. 

"  Some  says  it's  the  ind  of  .the  world's  comin',"  said  an 
old  man,  that  sat  moving  his  stick  listlessly  among  the 
shavings;  "and  'twould  be  well  for  most  of  us  it  was, 
too." 

"  Thrue  for  you,  Billy ;  there  's  no  help  for  the  poor." 

No  sentiment  could  meet  more  general  acceptance  than 
this,  —  none  less  likely  to  provoke  denial.  Thrown  upon 
each  other  for  acts  of  kindness  and  benevolence,  they  felt 
from  how  narrow  a  store  each  contributed  to  another's 
wants,  and  knew  well  all  the  privations  that  charity  like  this 
necessitated,  at  the  same  time  that  they  felt  themselves  de- 
serted bj'  those  whose  generosity  might  have  been  exercised 
without  sacrificing  a  single  enjoyment,  or  interfering  with 
the  pursuit  of  any  accustomed  pleasure. 

There  is  no  more  common  theme  than  the  ingratitude 
of  the  poor,  —  their  selfishness  and  hard-heartedness ;  and 
unquestionably  a  life  of  poverty  is  but  an  indifferent  teacher 
of  fine  feelings  or  gentle  emotions.  The  dreary  monotony 
of  their  daily  lives,  the  unvarying  sameness  of  the  life-long 
struggle  between  labor  and  want,  are  little  suggestive  of  any 


o^g  ST.  PATRICK'S   EVE. 

other  spirit  than  a  dark  and  brooding  melancholy;  and  it 
were  well,  besides,  to  ask  if  they  who  call  themselves 
benefactors  have  been  really  generous,  and  not  merely  just? 
We  speak  more  particularly  of  the  relations  which  exist 
between  the  owner  of  the  land  and  those  who  till  it ;  and 
where  benevolence  is  a  duty,  and  not  a  virtue  depending  on 
the  will ;  not  that  they  in  whose  behalf  it  is  ever  exercised 
regard  it  in  this  light,  —  very  far  from  it !  Their  thankful- 
ness for  benefits  is  generally  most  disproportioned  to  their 
extent ;  but  we  are  dissatisfied  because  our  charity  has  not 
changed  the  whole  current  of  their  fortunes,  and  that  the 
favors  which  cost  us  so  little  to  bestow,  should  not  become 
the  ruling  principle  of  their  lives. 

Owen  reflected  deeply  on  these  things  as  he  ascended 
the  mountain-road.  The  orphan  child  he  carried  in  his  arms 
pressed  such  thoughts  upon  him,  and  he  wondered  why  rich 
men  denied  themselves  the  pleasures  of  benevolence.  He 
did  not  know  that  many  great  men  enjoyed  the  happiness, 
but  that  it  was  made  conformable  to  their  high  estate  by 
institutions  and  establishments,  by  boards  and  committees 
and  guardians,  by  all  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  stuccoed 
buildings  and  liveried  attendants.  That  to  save  themselves 
the  burden  of  memory,  their  good  deeds  were  chronicled  in 
lists  of  "  founders  "  and  •'  life-subscribers,"  and  their  names 
set  forth  in  newspapers ;  while,  to  protect  their  finer  natures 
from  the  rude  assaults  of  actual  misery,  they  deputed  others 
to  be  the  stewards  of  their  bounty. 

Owen  did  not  know  all  this,  or  he  had  doubtless  been  less 
unjust  regarding  such  persons.  He  never  so  much  as  heard 
of  the  pains  that  are  taken  to  ward  off  the  ver}'  sight  of 
poverty,  and  all  the  appliances  employed  to  exclude  suffering 
from  the  gaze  of  the  wealthy.  All  his  little  experience  told 
him  was,  how  much  of  good  might  be  done  within  the  sphere 
around  him  by  one  possessed  of  afHuence.  There  was  not  a 
cabin  around  where  he  could  not  point  to  some  object  claim- 
ing aid  or  assistance.  Even  in  seasons  of  comparative  com- 
fort and  abundance,  what  a  deal  of  misery  still  existed ;  and 
what  a  blessing  it  would  bring  on  him  who  sought  it  out,  to 
compassionate  and  relieve  it !  So  Owen  thought,  and  so  he 
felt  too ;  not  the  less  strongly  that  another  heart  then  beat 


THE   SECOND  ERA. 


219 


against  his  own,  the  little  pulses  sending  a  gush  of  wild 
delight  through  his  bosom  as  he  revelled  in  the  ecstasy  of 
benevolence.  The  child  awoke,  and  looked  wildly  about 
him ;  but  when  he  recognized  in  whose  arms  he  was,  he 
smiled  happily,  and  cried,  "  Nony,  Nony,"  the  name  by 
which  Owen  was  known  among  all  the  children  of  the  village 
and  its  neighborhood. 

*'  Yes,  Patsy,"  said  Owen,  kissing  him,  "  your  own  Xony  ! 


you  're  coming  home  with  him  to  see  what  a  nice  house  he 
has  upon  the  mountain  for  you,  and  the  purty  lake  near  it, 
and  the  fish  swimming  in  it." 

The  little  fellow  clapped  his  hands  with  glee,  and  seemed 
delighted  at  all  he  heard. 

•'  Poor  darlin',"  muttered  Owen,  sorrowfully  ;  "he  does  n't 
know  't  is  the  sad  day  for  him ;  "  and  as  he  spoke,  the  wind 
from  the  valley  bore  on  it  the  mournful  cadence  of  a  death- 
cry,  as  a  funeral  moved  along  the  road.  "His  father's 
berrin'!"  added  he.     "God  help  us!  how  fast  misfortune 


220  ST.   PATRICK'S   EVE. 

does  be  overtaking  us  at  the  time  our  heart 's  happiest !  It 
will  be  many  a  da}'  before  he  knows  all  this  morning  cost 
him." 

The  little  child  meanwhile  caught  the  sounds,  and,  starting 
up  in  Owen's  arms,  he  strained  his  eyes  to  watch  the  funeral 
procession  as  it  slowly  passed  on.  Owen  held  him  up  for  a 
few  seconds  to  see  it,  and  wiped  the  large  tears  that  started 
to  his  own  eyes.  ''Maybe  Martin  and  poor  Ellen  's  looking 
down  on  us  now  I  "  and  with  that  he  laid  the  little  boy  back 
in  his  arms  and  plodded  forward. 

It  was  but  seldom  that  Owen  Connor  ascended  that  steep 
way  without  halting  to  look  down  on  the  wide  valley,  and  the 
lake,  and  the  distant  mountains  beyond  it.  The  scene  was 
one  of  which  he  never  wearied  ;  indeed,  its  familiaritv  had 
charms  for  him  greater  and  higher  than  mere  picturesque 
beauty  can  bestow.  Each  humble  cabin  with  its  little  family 
was  known  to  him ;  he  was  well  read  in  the  story  of  their 
lives ;  he  had  mingled  in  all  their  hopes  and  fears  from  child- 
hood to  old  age;  and  as  the  lights  trembled  through  the 
dark  night  and  spangled  the  broad  expanse,  he  could  bring 
before  his  mind's  eye  the  humble  hearths  round  which  they 
sat,  and  think  he  almost  heard  their  voices.  Now  he  heeded 
not  these  things,  but  steadily  bent  his  steps  towards  home. 

At  last  the  twinkle  of  a  star-like  liglit  showed  that  he  was 
near  his  journey's  end.  It  shone  from  the  deep  shadow  of  a 
little  glen,  in  which  his  cabin  stood.  The  seclusion  of  the 
spot  was  in  Owen's  eyes  its  greatest  charm.  Like  all  men 
who  have  lived  much  alone,  he  set  no  common  store  by  the 
pleasures  of  solitude,  and  fancied  that  most  if  not  all  of  his 
happiness  was  derived  from  this  source.  At  this  moment  his 
gratitude  was  more  than  usual,  as  he  muttered  to  himself, 
"Thank  God  for  it!  we've  a  snug  little  place  away  from 
the  sickness,  and  no  house  near  us  at  all ;  "  and  with  this 
comforting  reflection  he  drew  near  the  cabin.  The  door, 
contrary  to  custom  at  nightfall,  lay  open ;  and  Owen,  pain- 
fully alive  to  an}^  suspicious  sign,  from  the  state  of  anxiety 
his  mind  had  suffered,  entered  hastily. 

"Father!  where  are  you?"  said  he  quickly,  not  seeing 
the  old  man  in  his  accustomed  place  beside  the  fire ;  but 
there  was  no  answer.     Laying  the  child  down,  Owen  passed 


THE   SECOND  ERA.  221 

into  the  little  chamber  which  served  as  the  old  man's  bed- 
room, and  where  now  he  lay  stretched  upon  the  bed  in  his 
clothes.  "Are  ye  sick,  father?  What  ails  ye,  father 
dear?"  asked  the  young  man,  as  he  took  his  hand  in  his 
own. 

"  I  'm  glad  ye  've  come  at  last,  Owen,"  replied  his  father, 
feebly.     "I've  got  the  sickness,  and  am  going  fast." 

"No,  no,  father!  don't  be  down-hearted !"  cried  Owen, 
with  a  desperate  effort  to  suggest  the  courage  he  did  not  feel ; 
for  the  touch  of  the  cold  wet  hand  had  already  told  him  the 
sad  secret.     "  'Tis  a  turn  ye  have." 

"  Well,  maybe  so,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh ;  "  but  there  's  a 
cowld  feeling  about  my  heart  I  never  knew  afore.  Get  me 
a  warm  drink,  anyway." 

While  Owen  prepared  some  cordial  from  the  little  store  he 
usually  dispensed  among  the  people,  his  father  told  him  that 
a  boy  from  a  sick  house  had  called  at  the  cabin  that  morning 
to  seek  for  Owen,  and  from  him,  in  all  likelihood,  he  must 
have  caught  the  malady.  "  I  remember,"  said  the  old  man, 
"that  he  was  quite  dark  in  the  skin,  and  was  weak  in  his 
limbs  as  he  walked." 

"  Ayeh  !  "  muttered  Owen,  "  av  it  was  the  '  disease  '  he  had, 
sorra  bit  of  this  mountain  he  'd  ever  get  up.  The  strongest 
men  can't  lift  a  cup  of  wather  to  their  lips,  when  it 's  on  them  ; 
but  there  's  a  great  scarcity  in  the  glen,  and  maybe  the  boy 
ate  nothing  before  he  set  out." 

Although  Owen's  explanation  was  the  correct  one,  it  did 
not  satisfy  the  old  man's  mind,  who,  besides  feeling  con- 
vinced of  his  having  the  malady,  could  not  credit  his  tak- 
ing it  by  other  means  than  contagion.  Owen  never  quitted 
his  side,  and  multiplied  cares  and  attentions  of  every  kind ; 
but  it  was  plain  the  disease  was  gaining  ground,  for  ere  mid- 
night the  old  man's  strength  was  greatly  gone,  and  his  voice 
sunk  to  a  mere  whisper.  Yet  the  malady  was  characterized 
by  none  of  the  symptoms  of  the  prevailing  epidemic,  save 
slight  cramps,  of  which  from  time  to  time  he  complained. 
His  case  seemed  one  of  utter  exhaustion.  His  mind  was 
clear  and  calm  ;  and  although  unable  to  speak,  except  in 
short  and  broken  sentences,  no  trait  of  wandering  intel- 
lect  appeared.     His   malady   was   a    common    one   among 


222  ST.  PATRICK'S   EVE. 

those  whose  fears,  greatly  excited  by  the  disease,  usually 
induced  symptoms  of  prostration  and  debility  as  great,  if 
not  as  rapid,  as  those  of  actual  cholera.  Meanwhile  his 
thoughts  were  alternately  turning  from  his  own  condition 
to  that  of  the  people  in  the  glen,  for  whom  he  felt  the 
deepest  compassion.  ''  God  help  them  !  "  was  his  constant 
expression.  "Sickness  is  the  sore  thing;  but  starvation 
makes  it  dreadful.  And  so  Luke  Clancy 's  dead !  Poor  ould 
Luke  he  was  seventy-one  in  Michaelmas.  And  Martin,  too  ! 
he  was  a  fine  man." 

The  old  man  slept,  or  seemed  to  sleep,  for  some  hours,  and 
on  waking  it  was  clear  daylight.  "  Owen,  dear  !  I  wish,"  said 
he,  "I  could  see  the  priest;  but  you  mustn't  lave  me;  I 
couldn't  bear  that  now." 

Poor  Owen's  thoughts  were  that  moment  occupied  on  the 
same  subject,  and  he  was  torturing  himself  to  think  of  any 
means  of  obtaining  Father  John's  assistance,  without  being 
obhged  to  go  for  him  himself." 

"  I'll  go,  and  be  back  here  in  an  hour,  — ay,  or  less,'*  said 
he,  eagerly ;  for  terrible  as  death  was  to  him,  the  thought 
of  seeing  his  father  die  unanointed  was  still  more  so. 

"  In  an  hour,  — where  '11 1  be  in  an  hour,  Owen  dear?  The 
blessed  Virgin  knows  well,  it  was  n't  my  fault,  —  I  'd  have  the 
priest  av  I  could,  —  and  sure,  Owen,  j'ou  '11  not  begrudge  me 
masses  when  I'm  gone.  What's  that?  It's  like  a  child  cr}'- 
ing  out  there?  " 

"'Tis  poor  Martin's  little  boy  I  took  home  with  me, — 
he 's  lost  father  and  mother  this  day ;  "  and  so  saying,  Owen 
hastened  to  see  what  ailed  the  child.  "  Yer  sarvent,  sir," 
said  Owen,  as  he  perceived  a  stout-built,  coarse-looking  man, 
with  a  bull-terrier  at  his  heels,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.     "  Yer  sarvent,  sir.     Who  do  ye  want  here?  " 

"  Are  you  Owen  Connor?  "  said  the  man,  gruffly. 

"That  same,"  replied  Owen,  as  sturdily. 

"  Then  this  is  notice  for  3^ou  to  come  up  to  Mr.  Lucas's 
office  in  Gal  way  before  the  twenty-fifth,  witli  your  rent,  or 
the  receipt  for  it,  whichever  you  like  best." 

"  And  who  is  Mr.  Lucas  when  he  's  at  home?  "  said  Owen, 
half  sneeringly. 

"  You  '11   know   him   when   you   see   him,"   rejoined   the 


THE  SECOND  ERA.  223 

other,  turning  to  leave  the  cabin,  as  he  threw  a  printed 
paper  on  the  dresser;  and  then,  as  if  thinking  he  had 
not  been  formal  enough  in  his  mission,  added:  "Mr.  Lucas 
is  agent  to  your  landlord,  Mr.  Leslie ;  and  I  '11  give  you  a 
bit  of  advice :  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your  head  with  him, 
and  it  will  do  you  no  harm." 

This  counsel,  delivered  much  more  in  a  tone  of  menace 
than  of  friendly  advice,  concluded  the  interview ;  for,  hav- 
ing spoken,  the  fellow  left  the  cabin,  and  began  to  descend 
the  mountain. 

Owen's  heart  swelled  fiercely,  —  a  flood  of  conflicting 
emotions  were  warring  within  it;  and  as  he  turned  to 
throw  the  paper  into  the  fire,  his  eye  caught  the  date,  16th 
March.  "St.  Patrick's  Eve,  the  very  day  I  saved  his 
life,"  said  he,  bitterly.  "  Sure  I  knew  well  enough  how  it 
would  be  when  the  landlord  died !  AVell,  well,  if  my  poor 
ould  father  doesn't  know  it,  it's  no  matter.  Well,  Patsy, 
acushla,  what  are  ye  crying  for?  There,  my  boj^,  don't  be 
afeard,  'tis  Nony^s  with  ye." 

The  accents  so  kindly  uttered  quieted  the  little  fellow  in 
a  moment,  and  in  a  few  minutes  after  he  was  again  asleep 
in  the  old  straw  chair  beside  the  fire.  Brief  as  Owen's 
absence  had  been,  the  old  man  seemed  much  worse  as  he 
entered  the  room.  "God  forgive  me,  Owen  darling,"  said 
he,  "but  it  wasn't  my  poor  sowl  I  was  thinking  of  that 
minit.  I  was  thinking  that  you  must  get  a  letter  wrote  to 
the  young  landlord  about  this  little  place,  —  I  'm  sure  he  '11 
never  say  a  word  about  rent,  no  more  nor  his  father ;  and 
as  the  times  was  n't  good  lately  —  " 

"  There,  there,  father,"  interrupted  Owen,  who  felt 
shocked  at  the  old  man's  not  turning  his  thoughts  in  an- 
other direction  ;  "  never  mind  those  things,"  said  he.  "  Who 
knows  which  of  us  will  be  left  ?  The  sickness  does  n't  spare 
the  young,  no  more  than  the  ould." 

"Nor  the  rich,  no  more  nor  the  poor,"  chimed  in  the 
old  man,  with  a  kind  of  bitter  satisfaction,  as  he  thought  on 
the  landlord's  death ;  for  of  such  incongruous  motives  is 
man  made  up,  that  calamities  come  lighter  when  they  in- 
volve the  fall  of  those  in  station  above  our  own.  "'Tis 
a  fine   day,    seemingly,"   said   he,    suddenly   changing   the 


224  ST.  PATKICK'S  EVE. 

current  of  his  thoughts,  "  and  iligant  weather  for  the 
country ;  we  '11  have  to  turn  in  the  sheep  over  that  wheat ; 
it  will  be  too  rank;  ayeh,"  cried  he,  with  a  deep  sigh, 
"I'll  not  be  here  to  see  it;"  and  for  once  the  emotions 
no  dread  of  futurity  could  awaken  were  realized  by  worldly 
considerations,  and  the  old  man  wept  like  a  child. 

"What  time  of  the  month  is  it?  "  asked  he,  after  a  long 
interval  in  which  neither  spoke ;  for  Owen  was  not  really 
sorry  that  even  thus  painfully  the  old  man's  thoughts  should 
be  turned  towards  eternity. 

"  'T  is  the  seventeenth,  father,  a  holy-day  all  over  Ireland  !  " 

"  Is  there  many  at  the  '  station '  ?  —  Look  out  at  the  door 
and  see." 

Owen  ascended  a  little  rising  ground  in  front  of  the  cabin, 
from  which  the  whole  valley  was  visible ;  but,  except  a 
group  that  followed  a  funeral  upon  the  road,  he  could  see 
no  human  thing  around.  The  green  where  the  "  stations  " 
were  celebrated  was  totally  deserted.  There  were  neither 
tents  nor  people ;  the  panic  of  the  plague  had  driven  all 
ideas  of  revelry  from  the  minds  of  the  most  reckless ;  and, 
even  to  observe  the  duties  of  religion,  men  feared  to  as- 
semble in  numbers.  So  long  as  the  misfortune  was  at  a 
distance,  they  could  mingle  their  prayers  in  common,  and 
entreat  for  mercy ;  but  when  death  knocked  at  every  door, 
the  terror  became  almost  despair. 

"  Is  the  '  stations '  going  on?  "  asked  the  old  man,  eagerly, 
as  Owen  re-entered  the  room.  "  Is  the  people  at  the  holy 
well?" 

"  I  don't  see  many  stirring  at  all  to-day,"  was  the  cautious 
answer;  for  Owen  scrupled  to  inflict  any  avoidable  pain 
upon  his  mind. 

"Lift  me  up,  then!"  cried  he,  suddenly,  and  with  a 
voice  stronger,  from  a  violent  effort  of  his  will.  "  Lift 
me  up  to  the  window,  till  I  see  the  blessed  cross ;  and 
maybe  I  'd  get  a  prayer  among  them.  Come,  be  quick, 
Owen !  " 

Owen  hastened  to  comply  with  his  request;  but  already 
the  old  man's  eyes  were  glazed  and  filmy.  The  effort  had 
but  hastened  the  moment  of  his  doom  ;  and  with  a  low, 
faint  sigh,  he  lay  back  and  died. 


THE   SECOND  ERA.  225 

To  the  Irish  peasantry,  who,  more  than  any  other  people 
of  Europe,  are  accustomed  to  bestow  care  and  attention 
on  the  funerals  of  their  friends  and  relatives,  the  cholera, 
in  its  necessity  for  speedy  interment,  was  increased  in 
terrors  tenfold.  The  honors  which  they  were  wont  to  lav- 
ish on  the  dead  —  the  ceremonial  of  the  wake,  the  mingled 
merriment  and  sorrow,  the  profusion  with  which  they 
spent  the  hoarded  gains  of  hard-working  labor,  and  lastly 
the  long  train  to  the  churchyard,  evidencing  the  respect 
entertained  for  the  departed — should  all  be  foregone;  for 
had  not  prudence  forbid  their  assembling  in  numbers,  and 
thus  incurring  the  chances  of  contagion,  which,  whether  real 
or  not,  they  firmly  believed  in,  the  work  of  death  was  too 
widely  disseminated  to  make  such  gatherings  possible.  Each 
had  some  one  to  lament  within  the  limits  of  his  own  family, 
and  private  sorrow  left  little  room  for  public  sympathy. 
No  longer  then  was  the  road  filled  by  people  on  horseback 
and  foot,  as  the  funeral  procession  moved  forth.  The 
death- wail  sounded  no  more.  To  chant  the  requiem  of  the 
departed,  a  few  —  a  very  few  —  immediate  friends  followed 
the  body  to  the  grave,  in  silence  unbroken.  Sad  hearts, 
indeed,  they  brought,  and  broken  spirits ;  for  in  this  season 
of  pestilence  few  dared  to  hope. 

By  noon  Owen  was  seen  descending  the  mountain  to  the 
village,  to  make  the  last  preparations  for  the  old  man's 
funeral.  He  carried  little  Patsy  in  his  arms;  for  he 
could  not  leave  the  poor  child  alone,  and  in  the  house  of 
death.  The  claims  of  infancy  would  seem  never  stronger 
than  in  the  heart  sorrowing  over  death.  The  grief  that 
carries  the  sufferer  in  his  mind's  eye  over  the  limits  of  this 
world,  is  arrested  by  the  tender  ties  which  bind  him  to  life 
in  the  young.  There  is,  besides,  a  hopefulness  in  early  life 
—  it  is,  perhaps,  its  chief  characteristic  —  that  combats  sor- 
row better  than  all  the  caresses  of  friendship  and  all  the 
consolations  of  age.  Owen  felt  this  now;  he  never  knew 
it  before.  But  yesterday,  and  his  father's  death  had  left 
him  without  one  in  the  world  on  whom  to  fix  a  hope ;  and 
already,  from  his  misery,  there  arose  that  one  gleam  that 
now  twinkled  like  a  star  in  the  sky  of  midnio^ht.  The  little 
child  he  had  taken  for  his  own  was  a  world  to  him ;  and  as 

VOL.   II.  —  15 


226  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

be  went,  he  prayed  fervently  that  poor  Patsy  might  be 
spared  to  him  through  this  terrible  pestilence. 

When  Owen  reached  the  carpenter's,  there  were  several 
people  there ;  some  standing  moodily  brooding  over  recent 
bereavements ;  others  spoke  in  low  whispers,  as  if  fearful  of 
disturbing  the  silence ;  but  all  were  sorrow-struck  and  sad. 

"How  is  the  ould  man,  Owen?  "  said  one  of  the  group,  as 
he  came  forward. 

"He's  better  off  than  us,  I  trust  in  God!"  said  Owen, 
with  a  quivering  lip.     "He  went  to  rest  this  morning." 

A  muttered  prayer  from  all  around  showed  how  general 
was  the  feeling  of  kindness  entertained  towards  the  Connors. 

"When  did  he  take  it,  Owen?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  he  tuk  it  at  all ;  but  when  I  came  home 
last  night,  he  was  lying  on  the  bed,  weak  and  powerless,  and 
he  slept  awa}',  with  scarce  a  pain,  till  daybreak ;  then  —  " 

"He  's  in  glory  now,  I  pray  God!  "  muttered  an  old  man 
with  a  white  beard.  "We  were  born  in  the  same  year,  and 
I  knew  him  since  I  was  a  child,  like  that  in  your  arms;  and 
a  good  man  he  was." 

"Whose  is  the  child,  Owen?"  said  another  in  the  crowd. 

"Martin  Neal's,"  whispered  Owen;  for  he  feared  that  the 
little  fellow  might  catch  the  words.  "What 's  the  matter 
with  Miles?     He  looks  very  low  this  morning." 

This  question  referred  to  a  large  powerful-looking  man, 
who,  with  a  smith's  apron  twisted  round  his  waist,  sat  with- 
out speaking  in  a  corner  of  the  shop. 

"I  'm  afeard  he  's  in  a  bad  way,"  whispered  the  man  to 
whom  he  spoke.  "There  was  a  process-server,  or  a  bailiff, 
or  something  of  the  kind,  serving  notices  through  the  town- 
land  yesterda}^,  and  he  lost  a  shoe  off  his  baste,  and  would 
have  Miles  out  to  put  it  on,  tho'  we  all  tould  him  that  he 
buried  his  daughter  —  a  fine  grown  girl  —  that  mornin'. 
And  what  does  the  fellow  do  but  goes  and  knocks  at  the 
forge  till  Miles  comes  out?  You  know  Miles  Regan,  so  I 
need  n't  say  there  was  n't  many  words  passed  between  them. 
In  less  nor  two  minutes  —  whatever  the  bailiff  said  —  Miles 
tuck  him  by  the  throat,  and  pulled  him  down  from  the 
horse,  and  dragged  him  along  to  the  lake,  and  flung  him  in. 
'T  was  the  Lord's  marcy  he  knew  how   to  swim;    but  we 


THE   SECOND  ERA. 


227 


don't  know  what  '11  be  done  to  Miles  yet,  for  he  was  the 
new  agent's  man." 

"Was  he  a  big  fellow,  with  a  bull-dog  following  him?" 
asked  Owen. 

"No;  that 's  another;  sure  there  's  three  or  four 
of  them  goin'  about.     We  hear  that  bad  as  ould 
French  was,  the  new  one  is  worse." 

^4^Yell,_  well,  it 's  the  will  of  God!  "  said 
-en,  in  that  tone  of  voice  which  bespoke 
illingness  for  all  endurance,  so  long  as 
the  consolation  remained  that  the  ill  was 
not  unrecorded  above ;  while  he  felt  that 
all  the  evils  of  poverty  were  little 
^{K     m    comparison   with   the   loss    of 
those    nearest  and    dearest. 
"Come,    Patsy,    my    boy!" 
said  he  at  last,  as  he 
the    coffin    io 
le  ass-cart,  and 
turned  towards 
the  moun- 
tain; and, 
leading 
the    little 
fellow    by 
the    hand, 
he  set  out 
on     his 
way,— 
"Come 
home." 
It  was 
not  untif 
he  arrived 
at  that  part 

of  the  road  from  which  the  cabin  was  visible,  that  Owen 
knew  the  whole  extent  of  his  bereavement;  then,  when  he 
looked  up  and  saw  the  door  hasped  on  the  outside,  and  the 
chimney  from  which  no  smoke  ascended,  the  full  measure 
of   his  lone  condition  came  at  once  before  him,  and  he  bent 


228  ST.  PATRICK'S   EVE. 

over  the  coffin  and  wept  bitterly.  All  the  old  man's  affec- 
tion for  him,  his  kind  indulgence  and  forbearance,  his  happy 
nature,  his  simple-heartedness,  gushed  forth  from  his  mem- 
ory, and  he  wondered  why  he  had  not  loved  his  father,  in 
life,  a  thousand  times  more,  so  deeply  was  he  now  pene- 
trated by  his  loss.  If  this  theme  did  not  assuage  his 
sorrows,  it  at  least  so  moulded  his  heart  as  to  bear  them 
in  a  better  spirit ;  and  when,  having  placed  the  body  in  the 
coffin,  he  knelt  down  beside  it  to  pray,  it  was  in  a  calmer 
and  more  submissive  frame  of  mind  than  he  had  yet 
known. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  ere  Owen  was  once  more  on 
the  road  down  the  mountain ;  for  it  was  necessary  —  or  at 
least  believed  so  —  that  interment  should  take  place  on  the 
day  of  death. 

"I  never  thought  it  would  be  this  way  you  'd  go  to  your 
last  home,  father  dear,"  said  Owen  aloud,  and  in  a  voice 
almost  stifled  with  sobs ;  for  the  absence  of  all  his  friends 
and  relatives  at  such  a  moment  now  smote  on  the  poor  fel- 
low's heart  as  he  walked  beside  the  little  cart  on  which  the 
coffin  was  laid.  It  was,  indeed,  a  sight  to  move  a  sterner 
nature  than  his ;  the  coffin,  not  reverently  carried  by  bearers, 
and  followed  by  its  long  train  of  mourners,  but  laid  slant- 
wise in  the  cart,  the  spade  and  shovel  to  dig  the  grave  be- 
side it,  and  Patsy  seated  on  the  back  of  the  ass,  watching 
with  infant  glee  the  motion  of  the  animal,  as  with  careful 
foot  he  descended  the  rugged  mountain.  Poor  child!  how 
your  guileless  laughter  shook  that  strong  man's  heart  with 
agony! 

It  was  a  long  and  weary  way  to  the  old  churchyard.  The 
narrow  road,  too,  was  deeply  rutted  and  worn  by  wheel- 
tracks;  for,  alas!  it  had  been  trodden  by  many  of  late. 
The  gray  daylight  was  fast  fading  as  Owen  pushed  wide  the 
old  gate  and  entered.  What  a  change  to  his  eyes  did  the 
aspect  of  the  place  present!  The  green  mounds  of  earth 
which  rharked  the  resting-place  of  village  patriarchs  were 
gone;  and  heaps  of  fresh- turned  clay  were  seen  on  every 
side,  no  longer  decorated,  as  of  old,  with  little  emblems  of 
affectionate  sorrow;  no  tree,  nor  stone,  not  even  a  wild- 
flower,  spoke  of  the  regrets  of  those  who  remained.     The 


THE   SECOND  ERA.  229 

graves  were  rudely  fashioned,  as  if  in  haste ;  for  so  it  was, 
■ —  few  dared  to  linger  there ! 

Seeking  out  a  lone  spot  near  the  ruins,  Owen  began  to  dig 
the  grave,  while  the  little  child,  in  mute  astonishment  at  all 
he  saw,  looked  on. 

''Why  would  n't  you  stay  out  in  the  road,  Patsy,  and  play 
there  till  I  come  to  you?  This  is  a  cowld  damp  place  for 
you,  my  boy." 

"Nony!  Nony!  "  cried  the  child,  looking  at  him  with  an 
affectionate  smile,  as  though  to  say  he  'd  rather  be  near 
him. 

"Well,  well,  who  knows  but  you  're  right?  If  it*s  the  will 
of  God  to  take  me,  maybe  you  might  as  well  go  too.  It 's 
a  sore  thing  to  be  alone  in  the  world,  like  me  now!  " 

And  as  he  muttered  the  last  few  words  he  ceased  digging, 
and  rested  his  head  on  the  cross  of  the  spade. 

"Was  that  you,  Patsy?     I  heard  a  voice  somewhere." 

The  child  shook  his  head  in  token  of  dissent. 

"Ayeh!  it  was  only  the  wind  through  the  old  walls;  but 
sure  it  might  be  nat'ral  enough  for  sighs  and  sobs  to  be 
here;  there  's  many  a  one  has  floated  over  this  damp  clay." 

He  resumed  his  work  once  more.  The  night  was  falling 
fast  as  Owen  stepped  from  the  deep  grave,  and  knelt  down 
to  say  a  prayer  ere  he  committed  the  body  to  the  earth. 

"Kneel  down,  darlin',  here  by  my  side,"  said  he,  placing 
his  arm  round  the  little  fellow's  waist;  "  'tis  the  likes  of 
you  God  loves  best ; "  and  joining  the  tiny  hands  with  his 
own,  he  uttered  a  deep  and  fervent  prayer  for  the  soul  of  the 
departed.  "There,  father!"  said  he,  as  he  arose  at  last, 
and  in  a  voice  as  if  addressing  a  living  person  at  his  side, 
—  "there,  father:  the  Lord,  he  knows  my  heart  inside  me; 
and  if  walking  the  world  barefoot  would  give  ye  peace  or 
ease,  I  'd  do  it,  for  you  were  a  kind  man  and  a  good  father 
to  me."  He  kissed  the  coffin  as  he  spoke,  and  stood  silently 
gazing  on  it. 

Arousing  himself  with  a  kind  of  struggle,  he  untied  the 
cords,  and  lifted  the  coffin  from  the  cart.  For  some 
seconds  he  busied  himself  in  arranging  the  ropes  beneath 
it,  and  then  ceased  suddenly,  on  remembering  that  he 
could  not  lower  it  into  the  grave  unassisted. 


230  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

"I'll  have  to  go  dowu  the  road  for  some  one,"  muttered 
he  to  himself;  but  as  he  said  this,  he  perceived  at  some 
distance  off  in  the  churchyard,  the  figure  of  a  man,  as  if 
kneeling  over  a  grave.  "The  Lord  help  him,  he  has  his 
grief  too!"  ejaculated  Owen,  as  he  moved  towards  him. 
On  coming  nearer,  he  perceived  that  the  grave  was  newly 
made,  and  from  its  size,  evidently  that  of  a  child. 

"I  ax  your  pardon,"  said  Owen,  in  a  timid  voice,  after 
waiting  for  several  minutes  in  the  vain  expectation  that  the 
man  would  look  up;  "I  ax  your  pardon  for  disturbing 
you,  but  maybe  you  '11  be  kind  enough  to  help  me  to  lay 
this  coffin  in  the  ground.  I  have  nobody  with  me  but  a 
child." 

The  man  started  and  looked  round.  Their  eyes  met;  it 
was  Phil  Joyce  and  Owen  who  now  confronted  each  other. 
But  how  unlike  were  both  to  what  they  were  at  their  last 
parting!  Then  vindictive  passion,  outraged  pride,  and 
vengeance  swelled  every  feature  and  tingled  in  every  fibre 
of  their  frames.  Now  each  stood  pale,  careworn,  and 
dispirited,  wearied  out  by  sorrow,  and  almost  broken- 
hearted.    Owen  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  axed  your  pardon  before  I  saw  you,  Phil  Joyce,  and 
I  ax  it  again  now,  for  disturbing  you;  but  I  did  n't  know 
you,  and  I  wanted  to  put  my  poor  father's  body  in  the 
grave." 

"I  didn't  know  he  was  dead,"  said  Phil,  in  a  hollow 
voice,  like  one  speaking  to  himself.  "This  is  poor  little 
Billy  here ; "  and  he  pointed  to  the  mound  at  his  feet. 

"The  heavens  be  his  bed  this  night!"  said  Owen, 
piously;  "good-night!"  and  he  turned  to  go  away;  then 
stopping  suddenly,  he  added,  "3Iaybe,  after  all,  you'll  not 
refuse  me,  and  the  Lord  might  be  more  merciful  to  us  both, 
than  if  we  were  to  part  like  enemies." 

"Owen  Connor,  I  ask  your  forgiveness,"  said  Phil, 
stretching  forth  his  hand,  while  his  voice  trembled  like  a 
sick  child's.  "I  didn't  think  the  day  would  come  I'd  ever 
do  it;  but  my  heart  is  humble  enough  now,  and  maybe 
'twill  be  lower  soon.     Will  you  take  my  hand?" 

"Will   I,  Phil?  will  I,   is  it?  ay,   and   however  ye  may 


THE  SECOND  ERA.  231 

change  to  me  after  this  night,  I  '11  never  forget  this."  And 
he  grasped  the  cold  fingers  in  both  hands,  and  pressed 
them  ardently,  and  the  two  men  fell  into  each  other's  arms 
and  wept. 

Is  it  a  proud  or  a  humiliating  confession  for  humanity 
—  assuredly  it  is  a  true  one  —  that  the  finest  and  best  traits 
of  our  nature  are  elicited  in  our  troubles,  and  not  in  our 
jo^^s, —  that  we  come  out  purer  through  trials  than  pros- 
perity? Does  the  chastisement  of  Heaven  teach  us  better 
than  the  blessings  lavished  upon  us ;  or  are  these  gifts  the 
compensation  sent  us  for  our  afflictions,  that  when  poorest 
before  man  we  should  be  richest  before  God  ?  Few  hearts 
there  are  which  sorrow  makes  not  wiser,  —  none  which  are 
not  better  for  it.  So  it  was  here.  These  men,  in  the  con- 
tinuance of  good  fortune,  had  been  enemies  for  life;  mutual 
hatred  had  grown  up  between  them^  so  that  each  yearned 
for  vengeance  on  the  other;  and  now  they  walked  like 
brothers,  only  seeking  forgiveness  of  each  other,  and  ask- 
ing pardon  for  the  past. 

The  old  man  was  laid  in  his  grave,  and  they  turned  to 
leave  the  churchyard. 

"Won't  ye  come  home  with  me,  Owen?"  said  Phil,  as 
they  came  to  where  their  roads  separated;  "won't  ye  come 
and  eat  your  supper  with  us  ?  " 

Owen's  throat  filled  up;  he  could  only  mutter,  "Not  to- 
night, Phil ;  another  time,  plaze  God."  He  had  not  ventured 
even  to  ask  for  Mary,  nor  did  he  know  whether  Phil  Joyce 
in  his  reconciliation  might  wish  a  renewal  of  any  intimacy 
with  his  sister.  Sur-h  was  the  reason  of  Owen's  refusal; 
for,  however  strange  it  may  seem  to  some,  there  is  a  deli- 
cacy of  the  heart  as  well  as  of  good  breeding,  and  one 
advantage  it  possesses,  —  it  is  of  all  lands,  and  the  fashion 
never  changes. 

Poor  Owen  would  have  shed  his  best  blood  to  be  able  to 
ask  after  Mary,  —to  learn  how  she  was,  and  how  she  bore 
up  under  the  disasters  of  the  time ;  but  he  never  mentioned 
her  name ;  and  as  for  Phil  Joyce,  his  gloomy  thoughts  had 
left  no  room  for  others,  and  he  parted  from  Owen  without 
a  single  allusion  to  her.      "Good-night,  Owen,"  said   he, 


232 


ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 


'*and   don't  forget  your  promise    to    come    and    see    us 
soon." 

"Good-night,  Phil,"  was  the  answer;  "and  I  pray  a 
blessing  on  you  and  yours."  A  slight  quivering  of  the 
voice  at  the  last  word  was  all  he  suffered  to  escape  him; 
and  they  parted. 


I 


^'2>n^ 


From  that  day  the  pestilence  began  to  abate  in  violence. 
The  cases  of  disease  became  fewer  and  less  fatal,  and  at 
last,  like  a  spent  bolt,  the  malady  ceased  to  work  its  mis- 
chief. Men  were  slow  enough  to  recognize  this  bettered 
aspect  of  their  fortune.  Calamity  had  weighed  too  heavily 
on  them  to  make  them  rally  at  once.  They  still  walked  like 
those  who  felt  the  shadow  of  death  upon  them,  and  were 
fearful  lest  any  imprudent  act  or  word  might  bring  back 
the  plague  among  them. 

With  time,  however,  these  features  passed  off.  People 
graduall}^  resumed  their  wonted  habits ;  and,  except  where 
the  work  of  death  had  been  more  than  ordinarily  destruc- 
tive, the  malady  was  now  treated  as  "a  thing  that  had 
been." 

If  Owen  Connor  had  not  escaped  the  common  misfortune 
of  the  land,  he  could  at  least  date  one  happy  event  from 
that  sad  period,  —  his  reconciliation  with  Phil  Joj^ce.  This 
was  no  passing  friendship.  The  dreadful  scenes  he  had 
witnessed  about  him  had  made  Phil  an  altered  character. 
The  devotion  of  Owen,  his  manly  indifference  to  personal 


234  ST.  PATRICK'S  EYE. 

risk  whenever  his  services  were  wanted  by  another,  his 
unsparing  benevolence,  —  all  these  traits,  the  mention  of 
which  at  first  only  irritated  and  vexed  his  soul,  were  now 
remembered  in  the  day  of  reconciliation;  and  none  felt 
prouder  to  acknowledge  his  friendship  than  his  former 
enemy. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  Owen  did  not  dare  to  found  a 
hope  upon  his  change  of  fortune ;  for  Mary  was  even  more 
distant  and  cold  to  him  than  ever,  as  though  to  show  that, 
whatever  expectations  he  might  conceive  from  her  brother's 
friendship,  he  should  not  reckon  too  confidently  on  her 
feelings.  Owen  knew  not  how  far  he  had  himself  to  blame 
for  this ;  he  was  not  aware  that  his  own  constrained  manner, 
his  overacted  reserve,  had  offended  Mary  to  the  quick ;  and 
thus  both  mutually  retreated  in  misconception  and  distrust. 
The  game  of  love  is  the  same,  whether  the  players  be  clad 
in  velvet  or  in  hodden  gray.  Beneath  the  gilded  ceilings  of 
a  palace  or  the  lowly  rafters  of  a  cabin  there  are  the  same 
hopes  and  fears,  the  same  jealousies  and  distrusts  and 
despondings,  the  wiles  and  stratagems  are  all  alike;  for, 
after  all,  the  stake  is  human  happiness,  whether  he  who 
risks  it  be  a  peer  or  a  peasant! 

While  Owen  vacillated  between  hope  and  fear,  now  resolv- 
ing to  hazard  an  avowal  of  his  love  and  take  his  stand  on 
the  result,  now  deeming  it  better  to  trust  to  time  and  longer 
intimacy,  other  events  were  happening  around  which  could 
not  fail  to  interest  him  deeply.  The  new  agent  had  com- 
menced his  campaign  with  an  activity  before'  unknown. 
Arrears  of  rent  were  demanded  to  be  peremptorily  paid  up ; 
leases  whose  exact  conditions  had  not  been  fulfilled  were 
declared  void ;  tenants  occupying  sub-let  land  were  noticed 
to  quit;  and  all  the  threatening  signs  of  that  rigid  man- 
agement displaj^ed,  by  which  an  estate  is  assumed  to  be 
"admirably  regulated,"  and  the  agent's  duty  most  credit- 
ably discharged. 

Many  of  the  arrears  were  concessions  made  by  the  land- 
lord in  seasons  of  hardship  and  distress,  but  were  unrecorded 
as  such  in  the  rent-roll  or  the  tenant's  receipt.  There  had 
been  no  intention  of  ever  re-demanding  them;  and  both 
parties    had   lost   sight  of   the  transaction  until  the  sharp 


THE   THIRD  ERA.  235 

glauce  of  a  "new  agent"  discovered  their  existence.  So 
of  the  leases;  covenants  to  build  or  plant  or  drain  were 
inserted  rather  as  contingencies  which  prosperity  might 
empower  than  as  actual  conditions  essential  to  be  fulfilled ; 
and  as  for  sub-letting,  it  was  simply  the  act  by  which  a  son 
or  a  daughter  was  portioned  in  the  world,  and  enabled  to 
commence  the  work  of  self-maintenance. 

This  slovenly  system  inflicted  many  evils.  The  demand 
of  an  extravagant  rent  rendered  an  abatement  not  a  boon, 
but  an  act  of  imperative  necessity;  and  while  the  over- 
hanging debt  supplied  the  landlord  with  a  means  of 
tyranny,  it  deprived  the  tenant  of  all  desire  to  improve  his 
condition.  "Why  should  I  labor,"  said  he,  "when  the 
benefit  never  can  be  mine?"  The  landlord  then  declaimed 
against  ingratitude,  at  the  time  that  the  peasant  spoke 
against  oppression.  Could  they  both  be  right?  The  im- 
possibilit}^  of  ever  becoming  independent  soon  suggested 
that  dogged  indifference,  too  often  confounded  with  indolent 
habits.  Sustenance  was  enough  for  him,  who,  if  he  earned 
more,  should  surrender  it;  hence  the  poor  man  became 
chained  to  his  poverty.  It  was  a  weight  which  grew  with 
his  strength ;  privations  might  as  well  be  incurred  with  little 
labor  as  with  great;  and  he  sunk  down  to  the  condition  of 
a  mere  drudge,  careless  and  despondent.  "He  can  only 
take  all  I  have!"  was  the  cottier's  philosophy;  and  the 
maxim  suggested  a  corollary  that  the  "all  "  should  be  as 
little  as  might  be. 

But  there  were  other  grievances  flowing  from  this  source. 
The  extent  of  these  abatements  usually  depended  on  the 
representation  of  the  tenants  themselves,  and  such  evidences 
as  they  could  produce  of  their  poverty  and  destitution. 
Hence  a  whole  world  of  falsehood  and  dissimulation  was 
fostered.  Cabins  were  suffered  to  stand  half-roofed ;  chil- 
dren left  to  shiver  in  rags  and  nakedness;  age  and  infirmity 
exhibited  in  attitudes  of  afflicting  privations;  habits  of 
mendicity  encouraged,  —  all  that  they  might  impose  upon 
the  proprietor,  and  make  him  believe  that  any  sum  wrung 
from  such  as  these  must  be  an  act  of  cruelty.  If  these 
schemes  were  sometimes  successful,  so  in  their  failure  thev 
fell  as  heavy  penalties  upon  the  really  destitute,  for  whose 


236  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

privatioDB  no  pity  was  felt.  Their  misery,  confounded  in 
the  general  mass  of  dissimulation,  was  neglected;  and  for 
one  who  prospered  in  his  falsehood,  many  were  visited  in 
their  affliction. 

That  men  in  such  circumstances  as  these  should  listen 
with  greedy  ears  to  any  representation  which  reflected 
heavily  on  their  wealthier  neighbors,  is  little  to  be  won- 
dered at.  The  triumph  of  knavery  and  falsehood  is  a  bad 
lesson  for  any  people;  but  the  fruitlessness  of  honest  in- 
dustry is,  if  possible,  a  worse  one.  Both  were  well  taught 
by  this  system.  And  these  things  took  place,  not,  be  it 
observed,  when  the  landlord  or  his  agent  were  cruel  and 
exacting, — very  far  from  it.  -They  were  the  instances  so 
popularly  expatiated  on  by  newspapers  and  journals;  they 
were  the  cases  headed,  "Example  for  Landlords!  "  "Timely 
Benevolence!"  and  paragraphed  thus:  "We  learn,  with 
the  greatest  pleasure,  that  Mr.  Muldrennin,  of  Kilbally- 
drennin,  has,  in  consideration  of  the  failure  of  the  potato- 
crop,  and  the  severe  pressure  of  the  season,  kindly  abated 
five  per  cent  of  all  his  rents.  Let  this  admirable  example 
be  generally  followed,  and  we  shall  once  more  see,"  &c. 
&c.  There  was  no  explanatory  note  to  state  the  actual 
condition  of  that  tenantry,  or  the  amount  of  that  rent  from 
which  the  deduction  was  made.  Mr.  Muldrennin  was  then 
free  to  run  his  career  of  active  puffery  throughout  the  king- 
dom, and  his  tenantry  to  starve  on  as  before. 

Of  all  worldly  judgments  there  is  one  that  never  fails. 
No  man  was  ever  instrumental,  either  actively  or  through 
neglect,  to  another's  demoralization,  that  he  was  not  made 
to  feel  the  recoil  of  his  conduct  on  himself.  Such  had  been 
palpably  the  result  here.  The  confidence  of  the  people 
lost,  they  had  taken  to  themselves  the  only  advisers  in  their 
power,  and  taught  themselves  to  suppose  that  relief  can  only 
be  effected  by  legislative  enactments  or  their  own  efforts. 
This  lesson  once  learned,  and  they  were  politicians  for  life. 
The  consequence  has  been  isolation  from  him  to  whom  once 
all  respect  and  attachment  were  rendered;  distrust  and 
dislike  follow,  — would  that  the  catalogue  went  no  further! 

And  again  to  our  story.  Owen  was  at  last  reminded,  by 
the  conversation  of  those  about,  that  he  too  had  received 


THE   THIRD   ERA.  237 

a  summons  from  the  new  agent  to  attend  at  bis  office  in 
Galway,  —  a  visit  which,  somehow  or  other,  he  had  at  first 
totally  neglected;  and  as  the  summons  was  not  repeated, 
he  finally  supposed  it  had  been  withdrawn  by  the  agent,  on 
learning  the  condition  of  his  holding.  As  September  drew 
to  a  close,  however,  he  accompanied  Phil  Joyce  on  his  way 
to  Galway,  prepared,  if  need  be,  to  pay  the  half-year's 
rent,  but  ardently  hoping  the  while  it  might  never  be 
demanded.  It  was  a  happy  morning  for  poor  Owen,  —  the 
happiest  of  his  whole  life.  He  had  gone  over  early  to  break- 
fast at  Joyce's,  and  on  reaching  the  house  found  Mary 
alone,  getting  ready  the  meal.  Their  usual  distance  in 
manner  continued  for  some  time ;  each  talked  of  what  their 
thoughts  were  least  occupied  on ;  and  at  last,  after  many  a 
look  from  the  window  to  see  if  Phil  was  coming,  and  won- 
dering why  he  did  not  arrive,  Owen  drew  a  heavy  sigh  and 
said:  "It's  no  use,  Mary;  divil  a  longer  can  I  be  suffering 
this  way;  take  me  or  refuse  me  you  must  this  morning! 
I  know  well  enough  you  don't  care  for  me;  but  if  ye  don't 
like  any  one  else  better,  who  knows  but  in  time,  and  with 
God's  blessin',  but  ye  '11  be  as  fond  of  me  as  I  am  of  you  ?  " 

"And  who  told  ye  I  didn't  like  some  one  else?"  said 
Mary,  with  a  sly  glance ;  and  her  handsome  features  bright- 
ened up  with  a  more  than  common  brilliancy. 

"The  heavens  make  him  good  enough  to  desarve  ye,  I 
pray  this  day!  "  said  Owen,  with  a  trembling  lip.  "I  '11  go 
now!    that 's  enough!  " 

"Won't  ye  wait  for  yer  breakfast,  Owen  Connor?  Won't 
ye  stay  a  bit  for  my  brother  ? " 

"No,  thank  ye,  ma'am,  I'll  not  go  into  Galway  to-day." 

"Well,  but  don't  go  without  your  breakfast.  Take  a  cup 
of  tay  anyhow,  Owen  dear  I  " 

"  '  Owen  dear!  *  O  Mary,  jewel!  don't  say  them  words, 
and  I  laving  you  forever." 

The  young  girl  blushed  deeply  and  turned  away  her  head, 
but  her  crimson  neck  showed  that  her  shame  was  not  de- 
parted. At  the  moment  Phil  burst  into  the  room,  and, 
standing  for  a  second  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  each  in  turn, 
he  said:  "Bad  scran  to  ye,  for  women;  but  there's  nothing 
but  decate  and  wickedness  in  ye;  divil  a  pace  or  ease  I 


238  ST.   PATRICK'S   EVE. 

ever  got  when  I  quarrelled  with  Owen,  and  now  that  we  're 
friends,  ye're  as  cross  and  discontented  as  ever.  Try  what 
you  can  do  with  her  yourself,  Owen,  my  boy;  for  I  give 
her  up." 

*'  'T  is  not  for  me  to  thry  it,"  said  Owen,  despondingly ; 
'^  'tis  another  has  the  betther  luck." 

"That's  not  true,  anyhow,"  cried  Phil;  "for  she  told  me 
so  herself." 

"What!  Mary,  did  ye  say  that?"  said  Owen,  with  a 
spring  across  the  room;  "did  ye  tell  him  that,  darling?" 

"Sure  if  I  did,  ye  w^ould  n't  believe  me,"  said  Mary,  with 
a  side-look ;  ''  women  is  nothing  but  deceit  and  wickedness.'* 

"Sorra.  else,"  cried  Owen,  throwing  his  arm  round  her 
neck  and  kissing  her;  "and  I'll  never  believe  ye  again 
when  ye  say  ye  don't  love  me." 

"  'T  is  a  nice  way  to  boil  the  eggs  hard,"  said  Phil,  testily  ; 
"  arrah,  come  over  here  and  eat  your  breakfast,  man ;  you  '11 
have  time  enough  for  courting  when  we  come  back." 

There  needed  not  many  words  to  a  bargain  which  was 
already  ratified  ;  and  before  they  left  the  house,  the  day  of 
the  wedding  was  actually  fixed. 

It  was  not  without  reason,  then,  that  I  said  it  was  a  happy 
day  for  Owen.  Never  did  the  long  miles  of  the  road  seem 
so  short  as  now;  while,  with  many  a  plan  for  the  future, 
and  many  a  day-dream  of  happiness  to  come,  he  went  at 
Phil's  side,   scarce  crediting  his  good  fortune  to  be  real. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  agent's  office  in  the  square  at 
Galway,  they  found  a  great  many  of  their  neighbors  and 
friends  already  there :  some,  moody  and  depressed,  yet  lin- 
gered about  the  door,  though  they  had  apparently  finished 
the  business  which  brought  them  ;  others,  anxious-looking 
and  troubled,  were  waiting  for  their  turn  to  enter.  They 
were  all  gathered  into  little  groups  and  parties,  conversing 
eagerly  together  in  Irish ;  and  as  each  came  out  of  the  ofl3ce, 
he  was  speedily  surrounded  by  several  others,  questioning 
him  as  to  how  he  had  fared  and  what  success  he  met  with. 

Few  came  forth  satisfied,  —  not  one  happy-looking. 
Some,  who  were  deficient  a  few  shillings,  were  sent  back 
again,  and  appeared  with  the  money  still  in  their  hands, 
which  they  counted  over  and  over,  as  if  hoping  to  make  it 


THE   THIRD  ERA. 


239 


more.  Others,  trusting  to  promptitude  iu  their  payments, 
were  seeking  renewal  of  their  tenures  at  the  same  rent,  and 
found  their  requests  coldly  received,  and  no  pledge  returned. 
Others,  again,  met  with  severe  reproaches  as  to  the  condition 
of  their  dwellings  and  the  neglected  appearance  of  their 
farms,  with  significant  hints  that   slovenly  tenants   would 


meet  with  little  favor,  and,  although  pleading  sickness  and 
distress,  found  the  apology  but  slightly  regarded. 

'*  We  thought  the  ould  agent  bad  enough;  but,  faix,  this 
one  bates  him  out,  entirely."  Such  was  the  comment  of 
each  and  all  at  the  treatment  met  with,  and  such  the  general 
testimony  of  the  crowd. 

'*  Owen  Connor !  Owen  Connor !  "  called  out  a  voice, 
which  Owen  in  a  moment  recognized  as  that  of  the  fellow 
who  had  visited  his  cabin ;  and  passing  through  the  densely 


240  ST.  PATRICK'S   EVE. 

crowded  hall,  Owen  forced  his  way  iuto  the  small  front 
parlor,  where  two  clerks  were  seated  at  a  table,   writing. 

''Over  here;  this  way,  if  you  please,"  said  one  of  them, 
pointing  with  his  pen  to  the  place  he  should  stand  in. 
**  What 's  your  name  ?  " 

"  Owen  Connor,  sir." 

"  What 's  the  name  of  your  holding  ?  " 

"  Ballydorery,  Knockshaughlin,  and  Cushaglin  is  the 
townlauds,  and  the  mountain  is  Slieve-na-vick,  sir." 

"Owen  Connor,  Owen  Connor?"  said  the  clerk,  repeating 
the  name  three  or  four  times  over.  "Oh,  I  remember; 
there  has  been  no  rent  paid  on  your  farm  for  some  years." 

"You're  right  there,  sir,"  said  Owen;  "the  landlord, 
God  be  good  to  him !  tould  my  poor  fatlier  — " 

"Well,  well,  1  have  nothing  to  do  with  that, — step  in- 
side,—  Mr.  Lucas  will  speak  to  you  himself;  —  show  this 
man  inside,  Luffey ;  "  and  the  grim  bailiff  led  the  way  into  the 
back  parlor,  where  two  gentlemen  were  standing  with  their 
backs  to  the  fire,  chatting ;  they  were  both  young  and  good- 
looking,  and  to  Owen's  eyes  as  unlike  agents  as  could  be. 

"Well,  what  does  this  honest  fellow  want?  —  no  abate- 
ment, I  hope ;  a  fellow  with  as  good  a  coat  as  you  have, 
can't  be  very  ill  off." 

"True  for  you,  3'er  honor,  and  I  am  not,"  said  Owen, 
in  reply  to  the  speaker,  who  seemed  a  few  3'ears  younszer 
than  the  other.  "I  was  bid  spake  to  yer  honor  about  the 
little  place  I  have  up  the  mountains,  and  that  Mr.  Leslie 
gave  my  father  rent-free  —  " 

"  Oh,  you  are  the  man  from  Maam,  ain't  you?" 

"  The  same,  sir;  Owen  Connor." 

"That's  the  mountain  I  told  you  of,  Major,"  said  Lucas, 
in  a  whisper;  then,  turning  to  Owen,  resumed:  "Well,  I 
wished  to  see  you  very  much,  and  speak  to  3'ou.  I  've  heard 
the  story  about  your  getting  the  land  rent-free,  and  all  that ; 
but  I  find  no  mention  of  the  matter  in  the  books  of  the  es- 
tate; there  is  not  the  slightest  note  nor  memorandum,  that  I 
can  see,  on  the  subject ;  and  except  your  own  word,  —  which 
of  course,  as  far  as  it  goes,  is  all  very  well,  —  I  have  nothing 
in  your  favor." 

While  these  words  were  being  spoken,  Owen  went  through 


THE  THIRD  ERA. 


241 


a  thousand  tortures ;  and  many  a  deep  conflicting  passion 
warred  within  him.  "Well,  sir,"  said  he  at  last,  with  a 
heavily  drawn  sigh, —  "  well,  sir,  with  God's  blessin',  I  '11  do 
my  best ;  and  whatever  your  honor  says  is  fair,  I  '11  thry 
and  pay  it :  I  suppose  I  'm  undher  rent  since  March  last?  " 

''March !  why,  my  good  fellow,  there's  six  years  due  last 
twenty -fifth ;  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 


*'Sure  you  don't  mean  I'm  to  pay  for  what  was  given 
to  me  and  my  father?"  said  Owen,  with  a  wild  look  that 
almost  startled  the  agent. 

"  I  mean  precisely  what  I  say,"  said  Lucas,  reddening 
with  anger  at  the  tone  Owen  assumed.  *'  I  mean  that  you 
owe  six  years  and  a  half  of  rent ;  for  which,  if  you  neither 
produce  receipt  nor  money,  you  '11  never  owe  another  half- 
year  for  the  same  holding." 

VOL.   IL — 16 


242  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

''And  that's  flat!  "  said  the  Major,  laughing. 

"  And  that 's  flat !  "  echoed  Lucas,  joining  in  the  mirth. 

Owen  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  speakers,  and 
although  never  indisposed  to  enjoy  a  jest,  he  could  not,  for 
the  life  of  him,  conceive  what  possible  occasion  for  merri- 
ment existed  at  the  present  moment. 

"Plenty  of  grouse  on  that  mountain,  ain't  there?"  said 
the  Major,  tapping  his  boot  with  his  cane. 

But  although  the  question  was  addressed  to  Owen,  he 
was  too  deeply  sunk  in  his  own  sad  musings  to  pay  it  any 
attention . 

"  Don't  you  hear,  my  good  fellow?  Major  Lynedock  asks 
if  there  are  not  plenty  of  grouse  on  the  mountain." 

' '  Did  the  present  landlord  say  that  I  was  to  pay  this 
back  rent  ? "  said  Owen  deliberately,  after  a  moment  of 
deep  thought. 

"  Mr.  Leslie  never  gave  me  any  particular  instructions  on 
your  account,"  said  Lucas,  smiling ;  "  nor  do  I  suppose  that 
bis  intentions  regarding  you  are  different  from  those  respect- 
ing other  tenants." 

*'  I  saved  his  life,  then  !  "  said  Owen  ;  and  his  eyes  flashed 
with  indignation  as  he  spoke. 

"And  you  saved  a  devilish  good  fellow,  I  can  tell  3'ou," 
said  the  Major,  smiling  complacently,  as  though  to  hint  that 
the  act  was  a  very  sufficient  reward  for  its  own  performance. 

"The  sorra  much  chance  he  had  of  coming  to  the  property 
that  day,  anyhow,  till  I  came  up,"  said  Owen,  in  a  half- 
soliloquy. 

"What!  were  the  savages  about  to  scalp  him,  eh?" 
asked  the  Major. 

Owen  turned  a  scowl  towards  him  that  stopped  the 
already  begun  laugh ;  while  Lucas,  amazed  at  the  peasant's 
effrontery,  said,  "You  needn't  wait  any  longer,  my  good 
fellow  ;  I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  yer  honor,  sir,"  said  Owen,  civilly, 
"  if  I  paid  the  last  half-year —  I  have  it  with  me  —  if  ye  '11 
let  me  stay  in  the  place  till  ye  '11  ask  Mr.  Leslie  —  " 

"But  you  forget,  my  friend,  that  a  receipt  for  the  last 
half-year  is  a  receipt  in  full,"  said  Lucas,  interrupting. 

"  Sure,  I  don't  want  the  receipt!  "  said  Owen,  hurriedly; 


THE   THIRD   ERA.  243 

*'keep  it  yourself.  It  isn't  mistrusting  the  word  of  a 
gentleman  I  'd  be." 

"Eh,  Lucas!  blarney!  I  say,  blarney,  and  no  mis- 
take I  "  cried  the  ^lajor,  half  suffocated  with  his  own 
drollery. 

"By  my  sowl!  it's  little  blarney  I  'd  give  you,  av  I  had 
ye  at  the  side  of  Slieve-na-vich,"  said  Owen ;  and  the  look 
he  threw  towards  him  left  little  doubt  of  his  sincerity. 

"  Leave  the  room,  sir !  leave  the  room  !  "  said  Lucas,  with 
a  gesture  towards  the  door. 

"  Dare  I  ax  you  where  Mr.  Leslie  is  now,  sir?  "  said  Owen, 
calmly. 

"  He  's  in  London  :  No.  18,  Belgrave  Square." 

"Would  yer  honor  be  so  kind  as  to  write  it  on  a  bit  of 
paper  for  me?"  said  Owen,  almost  obsequiously. 

Lucas  sat  down  and  wrote  the  address  upon  a  card,  hand- 
ing it  to  Owen  without  a  word. 

"I  humbly  ax  yer  pardon,  gentlemen,  if  I  was  rude  to 
either  of  ye,"  said  Owen,  with  a  bow,  as  he  moved  towards 
the  door;  "but  distress  of  mind  doesn't  improve  a  man's 
manners,  if  even  he  had  more  nor  I  have ;  but  if  I  get  the 
little  place  yet,  and  that  ye  care  for  a  day's  sport  —  " 

"Eh,  damme,  you're  not  so  bad,  after  all,"  said  the 
Major:   "I  say,  Lucas  —  is  he,  now?" 

"Your  servant,  gentlemen,"  said  Owen,  who  felt  too  in- 
dignant at  the  cool  insolence  with  which  his  generous  pro- 
posal was  accepted  to  trust  himself  with  more ;  and  with 
that  he  left  the  room. 

"Well,  Owen,  my  boy,"  said  Phil,  who,  long  since  having 
paid  his  own  rent,  was  becoming  impatient  at  his  friend's 
absence;  "well,  Owen,  ye  might  have  settled  about  the 
whole  estate  by  this  time.  Why  did  they  keep  you  so 
long?" 

In  a  voice  tremulous  with  agitation,  Owen  repeated  the 
result  of  his  interview,  adding,  as  he  concluded:  "And 
now  there  's  nothing  for  it,  Phil,  but  to  see  the  landlord 
himself,  and  spake  to  him.  I  've  got  the  name  of  the  place 
he  's  in  here,  —  it 's  somewhere  in  London  ;  and  I  '11  never 
turn  my  steps  to  home  before  I  get  a  sight  of  him.  I've 
the  half-year's  rent   here  in  my  pocket,  so  that  I  '11  have 


244  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

money  enough,  and  to  spare ;  and  I  only  ax  ye,  Phil,  to  tell 
Mary  how  the  whole  case  is,  and  to  take  care  of  little  Patsy 
for  me  till  I  come  back,  —  he  's  at  your  house  now." 

"  Never  fear,  we  '11  take  care  of  him,  Owen ;  and  I  believe 
you're  doing  the  best  thing,  after  all." 

The  two  friends  passed  the  evening  together,  at  least 
until  the  time  arrived  when  Owen  took  his  departure  by 
the  mail.  It  was  a  sad  termination  to  a  day  which  opened 
so  joyfully,  and  not  all  Phil's  endeavors  to  rally  and  encour- 
age his  friend  could  dispossess  Owen's  mind  of  a  gloomy  fore- 
boding that  it  was  but  tlie  beginning  of  misfortune.  "  I  have 
it  over  me,"  was  his  constant  expression  as  they  talked,  — 
"I  have  it  over  me  that  something  bad  will  come  out  of 
this ;  "  and  although  his  fears  were  vague  and  indescribable, 
they  darkened  his  thoughts  as  effectually  as  real  evils. 

The  last  moment  came,  and  Phil,  with  a  hearty  "God 
speed  you,"  shook  his  friend's  hand,  and  he  was  gone. 

It  would  but  protract  my  story,  without  fulfilling  any  of 
its  objects,  to  speak  of  Owen's  journey  to  England  and  on 
to  London.  It  was  a  season  of  great  distress  in  the  manu- 
facturing districts;  several  large  failures  had  occurred, — 
great  stagnation  of  trade  existed,  and  a  general  depression 
was  observable  over  the  population  of  the  great  trading- 
cities.  There  were  daily  meetings  to  consider  the  condition 
of  the  working-classes,  and  the  newspapers  were  crammed 
with  speeches  and  resolutions  in  their  favor.  Placards  were 
carried  about  the  streets,  with  terrible  announcements  of 
distress  and  privation,  and  processions  of  wretched-looking 
men  were  met  with  on  every  side. 

Owen,  who,  from  motives  of  economy,  prosecuted  his 
journey  on  foot,  had  frequent  opportunities  of  entering  the 
dwellings  of  the  poor,  and  observing  their  habits  and  modes 
of  life.  The  everlasting  complaints  of  suffering  and  want 
rung  in  his  ears  from  morning  till  night ;  and  yet  to  his  unac- 
customed eyes  the  evidences  betrayed  few,  if  any,  of  the 
evils  of  great  poverty.  The  majority  were  not  without 
bread,  — the  very  poorest  had  a  sufficiency  of  potatoes. 
Their  dwellings  were  neat-looking  and  comfortable,  and,  in 
comparison  with  what  he  was  used  to,  actually  luxurious. 
Neither  were  their  clothes  like  the  ragged  and  tattered  cover- 


THE  THIRD  ERA.  245 

ings  Owen  had  seen  at  home.  The  fustian  jackets  of  the 
men  were  generally  whole  and  well  cared  for;  but  the 
children  more  than  ail  struck  him.  In  Ireland  the  young 
are  usually  the  first  to  feel  the  pressure  of  hardship,  —  their 
scanty  clothing  rather  the  requirement  of  decency  than  a 
protection  against  weather;  here  the  children  were  cleanly 
and  comfortably  dressed,  —  none  were  in  rags,  few  without 
shoes  and  stockings. 

What  such  people  could  mean  by  talking  of  distress, 
Owen  could  by  no  means  comprehend.  "I  wish  we  had  a 
little  of  this  kind  of  poverty  in  ould  Ireland ! "  was  the  con- 
stant theme  of  his  thoughts.  '''Tis  little  they  know  what 
distress  is.  Faix,  I  wondher  what  they  'd  say  if  they  saw 
Connemara?"  And  yet  the  privations  they  endured  were 
such  as  had  not  been  known  for  many  years  previous. 
Their  sufferings  were  really  great,  and  the  interval  between 
their  ordinary  habits  as  wide  as  ever  presented  itself  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  poor  Irishman's  life.  But  poverty,  after  all, 
is  merely  relative ;  and  they  felt  that  as  "  starvation"  which 
Paddy  would  hail  as  a  season  of  blessing  and  abundance. 

"With  a  fine  slated  house  over  them,  and  plenty  of  furni- 
ture inside,  and  warm  clothes,  and  enough  to  eat, — that's 
what  they  call  distress!  Musha!  I  'd  like  to  see  them  when 
they  think  they  're  comfortable,"  thought  Owen,  who  at  last 
lost  all  patience  with  such  undeserved  complainings,  and 
could  with  difficulty  restrain  himself  from  an  open  attack 
on  their  injustice. 

He  arrived  in  London  at  last,  and  the  same  evening  has- 
tened to  Belgrave  Square;  for  his  thoughts  were  now,  as 
his  journey  drew  to  a  close,  painfully  excited  at  the  near 
prospect  of  seeing  his  landlord.  He  found  the  house  with- 
out difficulty;  it  was  a  splendid  town-mansion,  well  befitting 
a  man  of  large  fortune;  and  Owen  experienced  an  Irish- 
man's gratification  in  the  spacious  and  handsome  building 
he  saw  before  him.  He  knocked,  at  first  timidly,  and  then, 
as.no  answer  was  returned,  more  boldly;  but  it  was  not 
before  a  third  summons  that  the  door  was  opened,  and  an 
old  mean-looking  woman  asked  him  what  he  wanted. 

"I  want  to  see  the  masther,  ma'am,  av  it's  plazing  to  ye!  ** 
said  Owen,  leaning  against  the  door-jamb  as  he  spoke.  ' 


246  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

"The  master?     What  do  you  mean?" 

"Mr.  Leslie  himself,  the  landlord." 

"Mr.  Leslie  is  abroad,  — in  Italy." 

"  Abroad !  abroad !  "  echoed  Owen,  while  a  sickly  f aint- 
ness  spread  itself  through  his  frame.  "He  's  not  out  of 
England,  is  he  ?  " 

"I  've  told  you  he  's  in  Italy,  my  good  man." 

"Erra!  where 's  that,  at  all?"  cried  Owen,  despairingly. 

"I  'm  sure  I  don't  know;  but  I  can  give  you  the  address, 
if  you  want  it." 

"No,  thank  ye,  ma'am;  it's  too  late  for  that  now,"  said 
he.  The  old  woman  closed  the  door,  and  the  poor  fellow 
sat  down  upon  the  steps,  overcome  by  this  sad  and  unlooked- 
for  result. 

It  was  evening.  The  streets  were  crowded  with  people, 
—  some  on  foot,  some  on  horseback  and  in  carriages.  The 
glare  of  splendid  equipages,  the  glittering  of  wealth,  —  the 
great  human  tide  rolled  past,  unnoticed  by  Owen,  for  his 
own  sorrows  filled  his  whole  heart. 

Men  in  all  their  worldliness  —  some  on  errands  of  pleas- 
ure, some  care-worn  and  thoughtful,  some  brimful  of  expec- 
tation, and  others  downcast  and  dejected  —  moved  past; 
scarcely  one  remarked  that  poor  peasant,  whose  travelled 
and  tired  look,  equally  with  his  humble  dress,  bespoke  one 
who  came  from  afar. 

"Well,  God  help  me,  what's  best  for  me  to  do  now?" 
said  Owen  Connor,  as  he  sat  ruminating  on  his  fortune; 
and,  unable  to  find  any  answ^er  to  his  own  question,  he 
arose  and  walked  slowly  along,  not  knowing  nor  caring 
whither. 

There  is  no  such  desolation  as  that  of  a  large  and  crowded 
city  to  him  who,  friendless  and  alone,  finds  himself  a  wan- 
derer within  its  walls.  The  man  of  education  and  taste 
looks  around  him  for  objects  of  interest  or  amusement,  yet 
saddened  by  the  thought  that  he  is  cut  off  from  all  intercourse 
with  his  fellow-men;  but  to  the  poor  unlettered  stranger 
how  doubly  depressing  are  all  these  things !  Far  from  specu- 
lating on  the  wealth  and  prosperity  around  him,  he  feels 
crushed  and  humiliated  in  its  presence.  His  own  humble  con- 
dition appears  even  more  lowly  in  contrast  with  such  evi- 


THE   THIRD   ERA.  247 

dences  of  splendor;  and  instinctively  be  retreats  from  the 
regions  where  fashion  and  rank  and  riches  abound,  to  the 
gloomy  abodes  of  less-favored  fortunes. 

When  Owen  awoke  the  following  morning,  and  looked 
about  him  in  the  humble  lodging  he  had  selected,  he  could 
scarcely  believe  that  already  the  end  of  his  long  journey  had 
been  met  by  failure.  Again  and  again  he  endeavored  to 
remember  if  he  had  seen  his  landlord,  and  what  reply  he 
had  received ;  but  except  a  vague  sense  of  disappointment, 
he  could  fix  on  nothing.  It  was  only  as  he  drew  near  the 
great  mansion  once  more  that  he  could  thoroughly  recollect 
all  that  had  happened;  and  then  the  truth  flashed  on  his 
mind,  and  he  felt  all  the  bitterness  of  his  misfortune.  I 
need  not  dwell  on  this  theme.  The  poor  man  turned  again 
homeward;  why,  he  could  not  well  have  answered,  had  any 
been  cruel  enough  to  ask  him.  The  hope  that  buoyed  him 
up  before,  now  spent  and  exhausted,  his  step  was  slow  and 
his  heart  heavy,  while  his  mind,  racked  with  anxieties  and 
dreads,  increased  his  bodily  debility,  and  made  each  mile 
of  the  way  seem  ten. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  his  journey  —  wet  through  from 
morning  till  late  in  the  evening  —  he  was  seized  with  a 
shivering-fit,  followed  soon  after  by  symptoms  of  fever. 
The  people  in  whose  house  he  had  taken  shelter  for  the 
night  had  him  at  once  conveyed  to  the  infirmary,  where  for 
eight  weeks  he  lay  dangerously  ill ;  a  relapse  of  his  malady, 
on  the  day  before  he  was  to  be  pronounced  convalescent, 
occurred,  and  the  third  month  was  nigh  its  close  ere  Owen 
left  the  hospital. 

It  was  more  than  a  week  ere  he  could  proceed  on  his  jour- 
ney, which  he  did  at  last,  moving  only  a  few  miles  each  day, 
and  halting  before  nightfall.  Thus  wearily  plodding  on,  he 
reached  Liverpool  at  last,  and  about  the  middle  of  January 
arrived  in  his  native  country  once  more. 

His  strength  regained,  his  bodily  vigor  restored,  he  had 
made  a  long  day's  journey  to  reach  home,  and  it  was  about 
ten  o'clock  of  a  bright  and  starry  night  that  he  crossed  the 
mountains  that  lie  between  Ballinrobe  and  Maam.  To 
Owen  the  separation  from  his  home  seemed  like  a  thing  of 
years  long;  and  his  heart  was  full  to  bursting  as  each  well- 


248  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

remembered  spot  appeared,  bringing  back  a  thousand  asso- 
ciations of  his  former  life.  As  he  strode  along,  he  stopped 
frequently  to  look  down  towards  the  village,  where,  in  each 
light  that  twinkled,  he  could  mark  the  different  cabins  of 
his  old  friends.  At  length,  the  long  low  farm-house  of 
the  Joyces  came  into  view,  —  he  could  trace  it  by  the  line  of 
light  that  glittered  from  every  w^indow,  —  and  from  this 
Owen  could  not  easily  tear  himself  away.  Muttering  a 
heartfelt  prayer  for  those  beneath  that  roof,  he  at  last 
moved  on,  and  near  midnight  gained  the  little  glen  where 
his  cabin  stood.  Scarcely,  however,  had  he  reached  the 
spot,  when  the  fierce  challenge  of  a  dog  attracted  him.  It 
was  not  his  own  poor  collie,  —  he  knew  his  voice  well,  — 
and  Owen's  blood  ran  chilly  at  the  sound  of  that  strange 
bark.  He  walked  on,  however,  resolutely  grasping  his  stick 
in  his  hand,  and  suddenly,  as  he  turned  the  angle  of  the 
cliff,  there  stood  his  cabin,  with  a  light  gleaming  from  the 
little  window. 

*'  'T  is  Phil  Joyce,  maybe,  has  put  somebody  in  to  take 
care  of  the  place,"  said  he;  but  his  fears  gave  no  credence 
to  the  surmise. 

Again  the  dog  challenged,  and  at  the  same  moment  the 
door  was  opened,  and  a  man's  voice  called  out,  "Who  comes 
there  ?  "  The  glare  of  the  fire  at  his  back  showed  that  he 
held  a  musket  in  his  hand. 

"'Tis  me,  Owen  Connor,"  answered  Owen,  half  sulkily, 
for  he  felt  that  indescribable  annoyance  a  man  will  experi- 
ence at  any  question  as  to  his  approaching  his  own  dwell- 
ing, even  though  in  incognito. 

"Stay  back,  then,"  cried  the  other;  "if  you  advance 
another  step,  I'll  send  a  bullet  through  you." 

"  Send  a  bullet  through  me !  "  cried  Owen,  scornfully,  yet 
even  more  astonished  than  indignant.  "Why,  isn't  a  man 
to  be  let  go  to  his  own  house,  without  being  fired  at?" 

"I  '11  be  as  good  as  my  word,"  said  the  fellow;  and  as  he 
spoke,  Owen  saw  him  lift  the  gun  to  his  shoulder  and  stead- 
ily hold  it  there.  "Move  one  step  now,  and  you  '11  see  if 
I  'm  not." 

Owen's  first  impulse  was  to  rush  forward  at  any  hazard, 
and  if  not  wounded  to  grapple  with  his  adversary;  but  he 


THE   THIRD   ERA.  249 

reflected  for  a  second  that  some  great  change  must  have 
occurred  in  his  absence,  which,  in  all  likelihood,  no  act  of 
daring  on  his  part  could  avert  or  alter.  ''1  '11  wait  for 
morning,  anyhow,"  thought  he;  and  without  another  word, 
or  deigning  any  answer  to  the  other,  he  slowly  turned  and 
retraced  his  steps  down  the  mountain. 

There  was  a  small  mud  hovel  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain, 
where  Owen  determined  to  pass  the  night.  The  old  man 
who  lived  there  had  been  a  herd  formerly,  but  age  and 
rheumatism  had  left  him  a  cripple,  and  he  now  lived  on  the 
charity  of  his  neighbors. 

"Poor  Larry!  I  don't  half  like  disturbing  ye,"  said 
Owen,  as  he  arrived  at  the  miserable  contrivance  of  wattles 
that  served  for  a  door;  but  the  chill  night  air  and  his  weary 
feet  decided  the  difficulty,  and  he  called  out,  "Larry  — 
Larry  Daly !  open  the  door  for  me,  —  Owen  Connor.  'T  is 
me!  " 

The  old  man  slept  with  the  light  slumber  of  age,  and 
despite  the  consequences  of  his  malad}^  managed  to  hobble 
to  the  door  in  a  few  seconds.  "Oh!  wirra,  wirra!  Owen, 
my  son!"  cried  he,  in  Irish;  "I  hoped  I'd  never  see  ye 
here  again,  — my  own  darlin'." 

"That 's  a  dhroll  welcome,  anyhow,  Larry,  for  a  man 
coming  back  among  his  own  people." 

''  'T  is  a  thrue  one,  as  sure  as  I  live  in  sin.  The  Lord 
help  us,  this  is  bad  fortune." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Larry?  What  did  I  ever  do  to  dis- 
grace my  name,  that  I  wouldn't  come  back  here?  " 

"  'T  is  n't  what  ye  done,  honey,  but  what's  done  upon 
ye.  Oh,  wirra,  wirra;  'tis  a  black  day  that  led  ye  home 
here." 

It  was  some  time  before  Owen  could  induce  the  old  man 
to  moderate  his  sorrows,  and  relate  the  events  which  had 
occurred  in  his  absence.  I  will  not  weary  my  reader  by 
retailing  the  old  man's  prolixity,  but  tell  them  in  the  fewest 
words  I  am  able,  premising  that  I  must  accompany  the  nar- 
rative by  such  explanations  as  I  may  feel  necessary. 

Soon  after  Owen's  departure  for  P3ngland  certain  disturb- 
ances occurred  through  the  country.  The  houses  of  the 
gentry  were  broken  open  at  night  and  searched  for  arms  by 


250  ST.   PATRICK'S   EVE. 

men  with  blackened  faces  and  in  various  disguises  to  escape 
recognition.  Threatening  notices  were  served  on  man}^  of 
the  resident  families,  menacing  them  with  the  worst  if  they 
did  not  speedily  comply  with  certain  conditions,  either  in 
the  discharge  of  some  obnoxious  individuals  from  their 
employment,  or  the  restoration  of  some  plot  of  ground  to 
its  former  holder.  Awful  denunciations  were  uttered  against 
any  who  should  dare  to  occupy  land  from  which  a  former 
tenant  was  ejected ;  and  so  terrible  was  the  vengeance  ex- 
acted, and  so  sudden  its  execution,  that  few  dared  to  trans- 
gress the  orders  of  these  savage  denunciators.  The  law  of 
the  land  seemed  to  stand  still ;  justice  appeared  appalled  and 
affrighted  by  acts  which  bespoke  deep  and  widespread  con- 
spiracy. The  magistrates  assembled  to  deliberate  on  what 
was  to  be  done ;  and  the  only  one  who  ventured  to  propose 
a  bold  and  vigorous  course  of  acting  was  murdered  on  his 
way  homeward.  Meanwhile,  Mr.  Lucas,  whose  stern  exac- 
tions had  given  great  discontent,  seemed  determined  to  carry 
thi-ough  his  measures  at  any  risk.  By  influence  with  the 
Government  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  considerable  police- 
force,  and,  under  cover  of  these,  he  issued  his  distress- 
warrants  and  executions,  distrained  and  sold,  probabl}^  with 
a  severity  increased  by  the  very  opposition  he  met  with. 

The  measures  undertaken  by  Government  to  suppress 
outrage  failed  most  signally.  The  difficulty  of  arresting  a 
suspected  individual  was  great  in  a  country  where  a  large 
force  was  always  necessary.  The  difficulty  of  procuring 
evidence  against  him  was  still  greater;  for  even  such  as 
were  not  banded  in  the  conspiracy"  had  a  greater  dread  of 
the  reproach  of  informer  than  of  any  other  imputation; 
and  when  these  two  conditions  were  overcome,  the  last  and 
greatest  of  all  difficulties  remained  behind,  —  no  jury  could 
be  found  to  convict  when  their  own  lives  might  pay  the 
penalty  of  their  honesty.  While  thus,  on  one  side,  went 
the  agent  with  his  cumbrous  accompaniments  of  law- 
officers  and  parchments,  police-constables,  and  bailiffs,  to 
effect  a  distress  or  an  ejectment,  the  midnight  party  with 
arms  patrolled  the  country,  firing  the  haggards  and  the 
farmhouses,  setting  all  law  at  defiance,  and  asserting  in 
their  own  bloody  vengeance  the  supremacy  of  massacre. 


THE   THIRD   ERA.  251 

Not  a  day  went  over  without  its  chronicle  of  crime ;  the 
very  calendar  was  red  with  murder.  Friends  parted  with  a 
fervor  of  feeling  that  showed  none  knew  if  tliey  would  meet 
on  the  morrow;  and  a  dark,  gloomy  suspicion  prevailed 
through  the  land,  each  dreading  his  neighbor,  and  deeming 
his  isolation  more  secure  than  all  the  ties  of  friendship. 
All  the  bonds  of  former  love,  all  the  relations  of  kindred 
and  affection,  were  severed  by  this  terrible  league.  Brothers, 
father,  and  sons  were  arrayed  against  each  other.  A  des- 
potism was  thus  set  up  which  even  they  who  detested  dared 
not  oppose.  The  very  defiance  it  hurled  at  superior  power, 
awed  and  terrified  themselves.  Nor  was  this  feeling  les- 
sened when  they  saw  that  these  dreadful  acts,  —  acts  so 
horrible  as  to  make  men  shudder  at  the  name  of  Ireland 
when  heard  in  the  farthest  corner  of  Europe,  —  that  these 
had  their  apologists  in  the  press,  that  even  a  designation 
was  invented  for  them,  and  murder  could  be  spoken  of 
patriotically  as  the  "Wild  Justice"  of  the  people. 

There  is  a  terrible  contagion  in  crime.  The  man  whose 
pure  heart  had  never  harbored  a  bad  thought  cannot  live 
untainted  where  wickedness  is  rife.  The  really  base  and 
depraved  were  probably  not  many ;  but  there  were  hardships 
and  sufferings  everywhere;  misery  abounded  in  the  land, 
—  misery  too  dreadful  to  contemplate.  It  was  not  difficult 
to  connect  such  sufferings  with  the  oppressions,  real  or 
supposed,  of  the  wealthier  classes.  Some  believed  the 
theory  with  all  the  avidity  of  men  who  grasp  at  straws 
when  drowning;  others  felt  a  savage  pleasure  at  the  bare 
thought  of  reversing  the  game  of  sufferance;  while  many, 
mixed  up  their  own  wrongs  with  what  they  regarded  as 
national  grievances,  and  converted  their  private  vengeance 
into  a  patriotic  daring.  Few  stood  utterly  aloof,  and  even 
of  these  none  would  betray  the  rest. 

The  temporary  success  of  murder,  too,  became  a  horrible 
incentive  to  its  commission.  The  agent  shot,  the  law  he 
had  set  in  motion  stood  still,  the  process  fell  powerless; 
the  "Wild  Justice"  superseded  the  slower  footsteps  of  com- 
mon law,  and  the  murderer  saw  himself  installed  in  safety 
when  he  ratified  his  bond  in  the  blood  of  his  victim. 

Habitual  poverty  involves  so  much  of  degradation  that 


252  ST.   PATRICK'S   EVE. 

recklessness  of  life  is  its  almost  invariable  accompaniment; 
and  thus,  many  of  these  men  ceased  to  speculate  on  the 
future,  and  followed  the  dictates  of  their  leaders  in  blind 
and  dogged  submission.  There  were  many,  too,  who  felt  a 
kind  of  savage  enthusiasm  in  the  career  of  danger,  and 
actually  loved  the  very  hazard  of  the  game.  Many  more  had 
private  wrongs  —  old  debts  of  injury  to  wipe  out  —  and 
grasped  at  the  occasion  to  acquit  them ;  but  even  w'hen  no 
direct  motives  existed,  the  terror  of  evil  consequences  in- 
duced great  numbers  to  ally  themselves  with  this  terrible 
conspiracy,  and  when  not  active  partisans,  at  least  to  be 
faithful  and  secret  confidants. 

Among  the  many  dispossessed  by  the  agent  was  Owen 
Connor.  Scarcely  had  he  left  the  neighborhood  than  an 
ejectment  was  served  against  him;  and  the  bailiff,  by  w^hose 
representations  Owen  was  made  to  appear  a  man  of  danger- 
ous character,  installed  in  his  mountain-farm.  This  fellow 
was  one  of  those  bold,  devil-may-care  ruffians,  who  survive 
in  every  contest  longer  than  men  of  more  circumspect  cour- 
age ;  and  Lucas  was  not  sorry  to  find  that  he  could  establish 
such  an  outpost  in  this  wild  and  dreary  region.  Well 
armed,  and  provided  wath  a  sufficiency  of  ammunition,  he 
promised  to  maintain  his  stronghold  against  au}^  force,  —  a 
boast  not  so  unreasonable,  as  there  was  only  one  approach 
to  the  cabin,  and  that  a  narrow  path  on  the  very  verge  of  a 
precipice.  Owen's  unexpected  appearance  was  in  his  eyes, 
therefore,  a  signal  for  battle ;  he  supposed  that  he  was  come 
back  to  assert  his  ancient  right,  and  in  this  spirit  it  was  he 
menaced  him  with  instant  death  if  he  advanced  another  step. 
Indeed,  he  had  been  more  than  once  threatened  that  Owen's 
return  would  be  a  "dark  day"  for  him,  and  prepared  himself 
for  a  meeting  with  him,  as  an  occasion  which  might  prove 
fatal  to  either.  These  threats,  not  sparingly  bandied  by 
those  who  felt  little  inclination  to  do  battle  on  their  own 
account,  had  become  so  frequent  that  many  looked  for 
Owen's  reappearance  as  for  an  event  of  some  moment. 

Old  Larry  often  heard  these  reports,  and  well  knowing 
Owen's  ardent  disposition  and  passionate  temper,  and  how 
easily  he  became  the  tool  of  others  when  any  deed  of  more 
than  ordinary  hazard  was  presented  to  him,  grieved  deeply 


THE   THIRD  ERA.  253 

over  the  consequences  such  promptings  might  lead  to ;  and 
thus  it  was  that  he  received  him  with  that  outburst  of  sor- 
row for  which  Owen  was  little  prepared. 

If  Owen  was  shocked  as  he  listened  first  to  the  tale  of 
anarchy  and  bloodshed  the  old  man  revealed,  a  savage 
pleasure  came  over  him  afterwards,  to  think  what  terror 
these  midnight  maraudings  were  making  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  lived  in  great  houses,  and  had  wealth  and  influ- 
ence. His  own  wrongs  rankled  too  deeply  in  his  breast  to 
make  him  an  impartial  hearer;  and  already  many  of  his 
sympathies  were  with  the  insurgents. 

It  was  almost  daybreak  ere  he  could  close  his  eyes ;  for, 
although  tired  and  worn  out,  the  exciting  themes  he  was 
revolving  banished  every  thought  of  sleep,  and  made  him 
restless  and  fretful.  His  last  words  to  Larry,  as  he  lay  down 
to  rest,  were  a  desire  that  he  might  remain  for  a  day  or  two 
concealed  in  his  cabin,  and  that  none  of  the  neighbors 
should  learn  anything  of  his  arrival.  The  truth  was,  he  had 
not  courage  to  face  his  former  friends,  nor  could  he  bear  to 
meet  the  Joyces.  What  step  he  purposed  to  take  in  the 
mean  while,  and  how  to  fashion  his  future  course,  it  is  hard 
to  say;   for  the  present,  he  only  asked  time. 

The  whole  of  the  following  day  he  remained  within  the 
little  hut;  and  when  night  came,  at  last  ventured  forth  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air  and  move  his  cramped  limbs.  His 
first  object,  then,  was  to  go  over  to  Joyce's  house,  with  no 
intention  of  visiting  its  inmates,  —  far  from  it.  The  poor 
fellow  had  conceived  a  shrinking  horror  of  the  avowal  he 
should  be  compelled  to  make  of  his  own  failure,  and  did  not 
dare  to  expose  himself  to  such  a  test. 

The  night  was  dark  and  starless, —  that  heavy,  clouded 
darkness  which  follows  a  day  of  rain  in  our  western  climate, 
and  makes  the  atmosphere  seem  loaded  and  weighty.  To 
one  less  accustomed  than  was  Owen,  the  pathway  would 
have  been  difficult  to  discover;  but  he  knew  it  well  in  every 
turning  and  winding,  every  dip  of  the  ground,  and  every 
rock  and  streamlet  in  the  course.  There  was  the  stillness 
of  death  on  every  side;  and  although  Owen  stopped  more 
than  once  to  listen,  not  the  slightest  sound  could  be  heard. 
The  sfloom  and   dreariness   suited   well   the  "habit  of  his 


254  ST.   PATRICK'S   EVE. 

soul."  His  own  thoughts  were  not  of  the  brightest,  and  his 
step  was  slow  and  his  head  downcast  as  he  went. 

At  last  the  glimmering  of  light,  hazy  and  indistinct  from 
the  foggy  atmosphere,  came  into  view,  and  a  few  minutes 
after  he  entered  the  little  enclosure  of  the  small  garden 
which  flanked  one  side  of  the  cabin.  The  quick  bark  of  a 
dog  gave  token  of  his  approach,  and  Owen  found  some 
difficulty  in  making  himself  recognized  by  the  animal, 
although  an  old  acquaintance.  This  done,  he  crept  stealthily 
to  the  window  from  which  the  gleam  of  light  issued.  The 
shutters  were  closed,  but  between  their  joinings  he  obtained 
a  view  of  all  within. 

At  one  side  of  the  fire  was  Mary,  —  his  own  Mary,  when 
last  he  parted  with  her.  She  was  seated  at  a  spinning- 
wheel,  but  seemed  less  occupied  with  the  work  than  bent 
on  listening  to  some  noise  without.  Phil  also  stood  in  the 
attitude  of  one  inclining  his  ear  to  catch  a  sound,  and  held 
a  musket  in  his  hand  like  one  ready  to  resist  attack.  A 
farm-servant,  a  lad  of  some  eighteen,  stood  at  his  side, 
armed  with  a  horse-pistol,  his  features  betraying  no  very 
equivocal  expression  of  fear  and  anxiet^^  Little  Patsy 
nestled  at  Mary's  side,  and  with  his  tiny  hands  had  grasped 
her  arm  closely. 

They  stood  there,  as  if  spell-bound.  It  was  evident  they 
were  afraid  by  the  slightest  stir  to  lose  the  chance  of  hear- 
ing any  noise  without;  and  when  Mary  at  last  lifted  up  her 
head,  as  if  to  speak,  a  quick  motion  of  her  brother's  hand 
warned  her  to  be  silent.  What  a  historj^  did  that  group 
reveal  to  Owen,  as,  with  a  heart  throbbing  fiercely,  he  gazed 
upon  it!  But  a  few  short  months  back,  and  the  inmates  of 
that  happy  home  knew  not  if  at  night  the  door  was  even 
latched ;  the  thought  of  attack  or  danger  never  crossed  their 
minds.  The  lordly  dwellers  in  a  castle  felt  less  security  in 
their  slumbers  than  did  these  peasants;  now,  each  night 
brought  a  renewal  of  their  terrors.  It  came  no  longer  the 
season  of  mutual  greeting  around  the  wintry  hearth,  the 
hour  of  rest  and  repose ;  but  a  time  of  anxiety  and  dread,  a 
gloomy  period  of  doubt,  harassed  by  every  breeze  that 
stirred,  and  every  branch  that  moved. 

"  'T  is  nothins:  this  time,"  said  Phil,   at  last.     "Thank 


THE   THIRD  ERA.  255 

God  for  that  same!  "  and  be  replaced  bis  gun  above  the 
cbimuey,  wbile  Mary  blessed  berself  devoutly,  and  seemed 
to  repeat  a  prayer  to  berself.  Owen  gave  one  parting  look, 
and  retired  as  noiselessly  as  be  came. 

To  creep  fortb  witb  tbe  dark  bours,  and  stand  at  tbis  win- 
dow, became  witb  Owen  now  tbe  wbole  business  of  life. 
Tbe  weary  bours  of  tbe  day  were  passed  in  tbe  expectancy 
of  tbat  brief  season,  —  tbe  only  respite  be  enjoyed  from  tbe 
corroding  cares  of  bis  own  bard  fortune.  Tbe  dog,  recog- 
nizing bim,  no  longer  barked  as  be  approacbed;  and  be  could 
stand  unmolested  and  look  at  tbat  beartb,  beside  wbicb  be 
was  wont  once  to  sit  and  feel  at  bome. 

Tbus  was  it,  as  tbe  tbird  week  w^as  drawing  to  a  close, 
wben  old  Larry,  wbo  bad  ventured  down  to  tbe  village  to 
make  some  little  purchase,  brought  back  tbe  news  tbat 
information  had  been  sworn  by  tbe  bailiff  against  Owen 
Connor,  for  threatening  him  witb  death,  on  pain  of  bis  not 
abandoning  his  farm.  Tbe  people  would  none  of  them  give 
any  credit  to  tbe  oath,  as  none  knew  of  Owen's  return;  and 
tbe  allegation  was  only  regarded  as  another  instance  of  tbe 
perjury  resorted  to  by  their  opponents  to  crush  and  oppress 
them. 

"They  '11  have  the  police  out  to-morrow,  I  hear,  to  search 
after  ye ;  and  sure  tbe  wa}^  ye  've  kept  bid  will  be  a  bad 
job  if  they  find  ye  after  all." 

"i/they  do,  Larry!  "  said  Owen,  laughing;  "but  I  think 
it  will  puzzle  them  to  do  so."  And  the  very  spirit  of  defi- 
ance prevented  Owen  at  once  surrendering  himself  to  tbe 
charge  against  bim.  He  knew  every  cave  and  hiding-place 
of  the  mountain,  from  childhood  upwards,  and  felt  proud  to 
think  how  be  could  baflSe  all  pursuit,  no  matter  bow  perse- 
vering his  enemies.  It  was  essential,  however,  that  bC' 
should  leave  bis  present  hiding-place  at  once ;  and  no  sooner 
was  it  dark  than  Owen  took  leave  of  old  Larry  and  issued 
forth.  The  rain  was  falling  in  torrents,  accompanied  by  a 
perfect  hurricane,  as  he  left  the  cabin;  fierce  gusty  blasts 
swept  down  the  bleak  mountain-side,  and  witb  w41d  and 
melancholy  cadence  poured  along  the  valley;  the  waters  of 
the  lake  plashed  and  beat  upon  the  rocky  shore;  the  rushing 
torrents,  as  they  forced  their  way  down  the  mountain,  swelled 


256  ST.   PATEICK'S   EVE. 

the  uproar,  in  which  the  sound  of  crashing  branches  and 
even  rocks  were  mingled. 

"  'Tis  a  dreary  time  to  take  to  the  cowld  mountain  for  a 
home,"  said  Owen,  as  he  drew  his  thick  frieze  coat  around 
him,  and  turned  his  shoulder  to  the  storm.  "I  hardly 
think  the  police,  or  the  king's  throops  either,  will  try  a 
chase  after  me  this  night." 

There  was  more  of  gratified  pride  in  this  muttered  reflec- 
tion than  at  first  sight  might  appear;  for  Owen  felt  a  kind 
of  heroism  in  his  own  daring  at  that  moment,  that  supported 
and  actually  encouraged  him  in  his  course.  The  old  spirit 
of  bold  defiance,  which  for  ages  has  characterized  the 
people;  the  resolute  resistance  to  authority  or  to  tyranny, 
which  centuries  have  not  erased,  was  strong  in  his  hardy 
nature;  and  he  asked  for  nothing  better  than  to  pit  his  own 
skill,  ingenuity,  and  endurance  against  his  opponents  for 
the  mere  pleasure  of  the  encounter. 

As  there  was  little  question  on  Owen's  mind  that  no 
pursuit  of  him  would  take  place  on  such  a  night,  he  resolved 
to  pass  the  time  till  daybreak  within  the  walls  of  the  old 
churchyard,  the  only  spot  he  could  think  of  which  promised 
any  shelter.  There  was  a  little  cell  or  crypt  there,  where 
he  could  safely  remain  till  morning.  An  hour's  walking 
brought  him  to  the  little  gate,  the  last  time  he  had  entered 
which  was  at  his  poor  father's  funeral. 

His  reflection,  nov\%  was  rather  on  his  own  altered  condi- 
tion since  that  day;  but  even  on  that  thought  he  suffered 
himself  not  to  dwell.  In  fact,  a  hardy  determination  to  face 
the  future,  in  utter  forgetfulness  of  the  past,  was  the  part 
he  proposed  to  himself;  and  he  did  his  utmost  to  bend  his 
mind  to  the  effort. 

As  he  drew  near  the  little  crypt  I  have  mentioned,  he  was 
amazed  to  see  the  faint  flickering  of  a  fire  within  it.  At 
first  a  superstitious  fear  held  him  back,  and  he  rapidly 
repeated  some  prayers  to  himself ;  but  the  emotion  was  soon 
over,  and  he  advanced  boldly  toward  it.  "Who's  there? 
Stand !  or  give  the  word !  "  said  a  gruff  voice  from  within. 
Owen  stood  still,  but  spoke  not.  The  challenge  was  like 
that  of  a  sentry,  and  he  half  feared  he  had  unwittingly 
strayed  within  the  precincts  of  a  patrol.     "Give  the  word 


THE   THIKD   ERA.  257 

at  once,  or  you'll  never  spake  another!"  was  the  savage 
speech  which,  accompanied  by  a  deep  curse,  now  met  his 
ears,  while  the  click  of  a  gun-cock  was  distinctly  audible. 

"I  'm  a  poor  man,  without  a  home  or  a  shelter,"  said 
Owen,  calmly;  "and  what's  worse,  I'm  without  arms,  or 
maybe  you  wouldn't  talk  so  brave." 

'•  What 's  yer  name?  where  are  ye  from?  " 

"I'm  Owen  Connor;  that's  enough  for  ye,  whoever  ye 
are,"  replied  he,  resolutely;  "it's  a  name  I'm  not  ashamed 
or  afraid  to  say  anywhere." 

The  man  within  the  cell  threw  a  handful  of  dry  furze  upon 
the  smouldering  flame,  and  while  he  remained  concealed 
himself,  took  a  deliberate  survey  of  Owen  as  he  stood  close 
to  the  doorway.  "You're  welcome,  Owen,"  said  he,  in  an 
altered  voice,  and  one  which  Owen  immediately  recognized 
as  that  of  the  old  blacksmith.  Miles  Regan;  '■'3'ou 're  wel- 
come, my  boy!  better  late  than  never,  anyhow!  " 

''  What  do  you  mean.  Miles?  'Tis  n't  expecting  me  here 
ye  were,  I  suppose?" 

"'Tis  just  the  same  then,  I  was  expecting  this  many  a 
day,"  said  Miles,  as  with  a  rugged  grasp  of  botii  hands  he 
drew  Owen  within  the  narrow  cell.  "And  't  ain't  me  only 
was  expecting  it,  but  every  one  else.  Here,  avich,  taste 
this,  —  ye  're  wet  and  cowld  both ;  that  will  put  life  in  ye,  — 
and  it  never  ped  the  king  sixpence." 

And  he  handed  Owen  a  quart  bottle  as  he  spoke,  the  odor 
of  which  was  unmistakable  enough  to  bear  testimou}^  to  his 
words. 

"  And  what  brings  you  here.  Miles,  in  the  name  of  God?" 
said  Owen,  for  his  surprise  at  the  meeting  increased  every 
moment. 

"'Tis  your  own  case,  only  worse,"  said  the  other,  with 
a  drunken  laugh,  for  the  poteen  had  already  affected  his 
head. 

"And  what's  that,  if  I  might  make  bould?"  said  Owen, 
rather  angrily. 

"  Just  that  I  got  the  turn-out,  my  boy.    That  new  chap  they 

have  over  the  property,  sould  me  out,  root  and  branch ;  and 

as  I  did  n't  go  quiet,  ye  see,  they  brought  the  polls  down,  and 

there  was  a  bit  of  a  fight,  to  take  the  two  cows  away ;    and 

VOL.  II.  — 17 


258  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

somehow  "  —  here  he  snatched  the  bottle  rudely  from  Owen's 
hand,  and  swallowed  a  copious  draft  of  it  —  ''  and  somehow 
the  corporal  was  killed,  and  I  thought  it  better  to  be  away 
for  a  while  —  for  at  the  inquest,  though  the  boys  would  take 
'  the  vestment '  they  seen  him  shot  by  one  of  his  comrades, 
there  was  a  bit  of  a  smash  in  his  skull,  ye  see,"  —  here  he 
gave  a  low,  fearful  laugh,  —  "  that  fitted  neatly  to  the  top  of 
my  eleven-pound  hammer ;  ye  comprehend  ?  " 

Owen's  blood  ran  cold  as  he  said,  "  Ye  don't  mean  it  was 
you  that  killed  him?" 

"  I  do,  then,"  replied  the  other,  wdth  a  savage  grin,  as  he 
placed  his  face  within  a  few  inches  of  Owen's.  '^  There  's  a 
hundred  pounds  blood-money  for  ye,  now,  if  ye  give  the  in- 
formation !  A  hundred  pounds,"  muttered  he  to  himself : 
"  musha,  I  never  thought  they'd  give  ten  shillings  for  my 
own  four  bones  before  !  " 

Owen  scorned  to  reply  to  the  insinuation  of  his  turning 
informer,  and  sat  moodily  thinking  over  the  event. 

"  AYell,  I'll  be  going,  anyhow,"  said  he,  rising,  for  his 
abhorrence  of  his  companion  made  him  feel  the  storm  and 
the  hurricane  a  far  preferable  alternative. 

"  The  devil  a  one  foot  ye  '11  leave  this,  my  boy,"  said  Miles, 
grasping  him  wnth  the  grip  of  his  gigantic  hand  ;  "  no,  no, 
ma  bouchal,  'tis  n't  so  easy  aimed  as  ye  think;  a  hundred 
pounds,  naboclish !  " 

"  Leave  me  free  !  let  go  my  arm  !  "  said  Owen,  whose  anger 
now  rose  at  the  insolence  of  this  taunt. 

"  I'll  break  it  across  my  knee,  first,"  said  the  infuriated 
ruffian,  as  he  half  imitated  by  a  gesture  his  horrid  threat. 

There  was  no  comparison  in  point  of  bodily  strength 
between  them ;  for  although  Owen  was  not  half  the  other's 
age,  and  had  the  advantage  of  being  perfectly  sober,  the 
smith  was  a  man  of  enormous  power,  and  held  him  as 
though  he  were  a  child  in  his  grasp. 

*'  So  that's  what  you'd  be  at,  my  boy,  is  it?  "  said  Miles, 
scoffing;  "it's  the  fine  thrade  you  choose!  but  maybe  it's 
not  so  pleasant,  after  all.  Stay  still  there  —  be  quiet,  I  say  — 
by  —  "  and  here  he  uttered  a  most  awful  oath,  —  "  if  you 
rouse  me,  I  '11  paste  your  brains  against  that  wall ;  "  and  as  he 
spoke,  he  dashed  his  closed  fist  against  the  rude  and  crum- 


THE  THIRD  ERA.  259 

bling  masonry,  with  a  force  that  shook  several  large  stoues 
from  their  places,  and  left  his  knuckles  one  indistinguishable 
mass  of  blood  and  gore. 

'•  That's  brave,  anyhow,"  said  Owen,  with  a  bitter  mockery  ; 
for  his  own  danger,  at  the  moment,  could  not  repress  his  con- 
tempt for  the  savage  conduct  of  the  other. 

Fortunately,  the  besotted  intellect  of  the  smith  made  him 
accept  the  speech  in  a  very  different  sense,  and  he  said, 
''  There  never  was  the  man  yet,  I  would  n't  give  him  two 
blows  at  me,  for  one  at  him,  and  mine  to  be  the  last." 

''I  often  heard  of  that  before,"  said  Owen,  who  saw 
that  any  attempt  to  escape  by  main  force  M^as  completely 
out  of  the  question,  and  that  stratagem  alone  could  pre- 
sent a  chance. 

"Did  ye  ever  hear  of  Dan  Lenahan,"  said  Miles,  with  a 
grin,  —  "  what  I  did  to  Dan?  I  was  to  fight  him  wid  one 
hand,  and  the  other  tied  behind  my  back ;  and  when  he 
came  up  to  shake  hands  wid  me  before  the  fight,  I  just 
put  my  thumb  in  my  hand,  that  way,  and  I  smashed  his 
four  fingers  over  it." 

"  There  was  no  fight  that  day,  anyhow,  Miles." 

"  Thrue  for  ye,  boy  ;  the  sport  w^as  soon  over.  Raich  me 
over  the  bottle ;  "  and  with  that.  Miles  finished  the  poteen  at 
a  draught,  and  then  lay  back  against  the  wall  as  if  to  sleep. 
Still,  he  never  relinquished  his  grasp,  but,  as  he  fell  off 
asleep,  held  him  as  in  a  vice. 

As  Owen  sat  thus  a  prisoner,  turning  over  in  his  mind 
every  possible  chance  of  escape,  he  heard  the  sound  of  feet 
and  men's  voices  rapidly  approaching ;  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments several  men  turned  into  the  churchyard,  and  came 
towards  the  crypt.  They  were  conversing  in  a  low  but 
hurried  voice,  which  was  quickl}^  hushed  as  they  came 
nearer. 

"What's  this?"  cried  one,  as  he  entered  the  cell;  "Miles 
has  a  prisoner  here  !  " 

"  Faix,  he  has  so,  Mickey,"  answered  Owen,  for  he 
recognized  in  the  speaker  an  old  friend  and  schoolfellow. 
The  rest  came  hurriedly  forward  at  the  words,  and  soon 
Owen  found  himself  among  a  number  of  his  former  com- 
panions. Two  or  three  of  the  party  were  namesakes  and 
relations. 


260  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

The  explanation  of  his  capture  was  speedily  given,  and 
tbey  all  laughed  heartily  at  Owen's  account  of  his  ingenious 
efforts  at  flattery. 

"  Av  the  poteen  held  out,  Owen  dear,  ye  wouldn't  have 
had  much  trouble ;  but  he  can  drink  two  quarts  before  he 
loses  his  strength." 

In  return  for  his  narrative,  they  freely  and  frankly  told 
their  own  story.  They  had  been  out  arms-hunting,  —  un- 
successfully, however,  —  their  own  exploit  being  the  burn- 
ing of  a  haggard  belonging  to  a  farmer  who  refused  to  join 
the  "  rising." 

Owen  felt  greatly  relieved  to  discover  that  his  old  friends 
regarded  the  smith  with  a  horror  fully  as  great  as  his  own. 
But  they  excused  themselves  for  the  companionship  by  say- 
ing, "What  are  we  to  do  with  the  crayture?  Ye  would  n't 
have  us  let  him  be  taken?  "  And  thus  they  were  compelled 
to  practise  every  measure  for  the  security  of  one  they  had 
no  love  for,  and  whose  own  excesses  increased  the  hazard 
tenfold. 

The  marauding  exploits  they  told  of  were,  to  Owen's  ears, 
not  devoid  of  a  strange  interest,  the  danger  alone  had  its 
fascination  for  him  ;  and,  artfully  interwoven  as  their  stories 
were  with  sentiments  of  affected  patriotism  and  noble  aspi- 
rations for  the  cause  of  their  country,  they  affected  him 
strongly. 

For,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  a  devotion  to  country  —  a 
mistaken  sense  of  national  honor  —  prompted  man}^  to 
these  lawless  courses.  Vague  notions  of  confiscated  lands 
to  be  restored  to  their  rightful  possessors ;  ancient  privi- 
leges reconferred  ;  their  Church  once  more  endowed  with  its 
long-lost  wealth  and  power :  such  were  the  motives  of  the 
more  high-spirited  and  independent.  Others  sought  re- 
dress for  personal  grievances,  —  some  real  or  imaginary 
hardship  they  labored  under;  or  perhaps,  as  was  not 
unfrequent,  they  bore  the  memory  of  some  old  grudge  or 
malice,  which  they  hoped  now  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
requiting.  Many  were  there,  who,  like  the  weak-minded 
in  all  popular  commotions,  float  with  the  strong  tide, 
whichever  way  it  may  run.  They  knew  not  the  objects 
aimed  at,    they  were   ignorant   of   the    intentions   of   their 


THE   THIRD   ERA.  261 

leaders,  but  would  not  lie  under  the  stain  of  cowardice 
among  their  companions,  nor  shrink  from  any  cause  where 
there  was  danger,  if  only  for  that  very  reason.  Thus  was 
the  mass  made  up  of  men  differing  in  various  ways,  but 
all  held  together  by  the  common  tie  of  a  Church  and  a 
country.  It  might  be  supposed  that  the  leaders  in  such 
a  movement  would  be  those  who,  having  suffered  some 
grievous  wrong,  were  reckless  enough  to  adventure  on 
any  course  that  promised  vengeance :  very  far  from  this. 
The  principal  promoters  of  the  insurrection  were  of  the 
class  of  farmers,  —  men  well  to  do,  and  reputed,  in  many 
cases,  wealthy.  The  instruments  by  which  they  worked 
were  indeed  of  the  very  poorer  class,  —  the  cottier,  whose 
want  and  misery  had  eat  into  his  nature,  and  wlio  had  as 
little  room  for  fear  as  for  hope  in  his  chilled  heart.  Some 
injury  sustained  by  one  of  these,  some  piece  of  justice 
denied  him ;  his  ejection  from  his  tenement;  a  chance  word, 
perhaps,  spoken  to  him  in  anger  by  his  landlord  or  the 
agent,  were  the  springs  which  moved  a  man  like  this,  and 
brought  him  into  confederacy  with  those  who  promised  him 
a  speedy  repayment  of  his  wrongs,  and  flattered  him  into 
the  belief  that  his  individual  case  had  all  the  weight  and 
importance  of  a  national  question.  Many  insurrectionary 
movements  have  grown  into  the  magnitude  of  systematic 
rebellion  from  the  mere  assumption  on  the  part  of  others 
that  they  were  prearranged  and  predetermined.  The  self- 
importance  suggested  by  a  bold  opposition  to  the  law  is  a 
strong  agent  in  arming  men  against  its  terrors.  The  mock- 
martyrdom  of  Ireland  is  in  this  wa}^,  perhaps,  her  greatest 
and  least  curable  evil. 

Owen  was,  of  all  others,  the  man  they  most  wished  for 
amongst  them.  Independent  of  his  personal  courage  and 
daring,  he  was  regarded  as  one  fruitful  in  expedients,  and 
never  deterred  by  difliculties.  This  mingled  character  of 
cool  determination  and  headlong  impulse  made  him  exactly 
suited  to  become  a  leader ;  and  many  a  plot  was  thought  of 
to  draw  him  into  their  snares,  when  the  circumstances  of  hi» 
fortune  thus  anticipated  their  intentions. 

It  would  not  forward  the  object  of  my  little  tale  to  dwell 
upon  the  life  he  now  led.     It  was  indeed  an  existence  full  of 


262  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

misery  and  suffering.  To  exaggerate  the  danger  of  his 
position,  his  companions  asserted  that  the  greatest  efforts 
were  making  for  his  capture,  rewards  offered,  and  spies 
scattered  far  and  wide  through  the  country ;  and  while  they 
agreed  with  him  that  nothing  could  be  laid  to  his  charge, 
they  still  insisted  that  were  he  once  taken,  false-swearing 
and  perjury  would  bring  him  to  the  gallows,  "as  it  did 
many  a  brave  bo}^  before  him." 

Half  starved,  and  harassed  by  incessant  change  of  place  ; 
"tortured  by  the  fevered  agony  of  a  mind  halting  between  a 
deep  purpose  of  vengeance  and  a  conscious  sense  of  inno- 
cence, his  own  daily  sufferings  soon  brought  down  his 
mind  to  that  sluggish  state  of  gloomy  desperation  in  which 
the  very  instincts  of  our  better  nature  seem  dulled  and 
blunted.  "I  cannot  be  worse!  "  was  his  constant  expres- 
sion, as  he  wandered  alone  by  some  unfrequented  mountain- 
path,  or  along  the  verge  of  some  lonely  ravine,  —  "I  cannot 
be  worse !  "  It  is  an  evil  moment  that  suggests  a  thought 
like  this ! 

Each  night  he  was  accustomed  to  repair  to  the  old  church- 
yard, where  some  of  the  "  boys,"  as  they  called  themselves, 
assembled  to  deliberate  on  future  measures  or  talk  over  the 
past.  It  was  less  in  sympathy  with  their  plans  that  Owen 
came,  than  for  the  very  want  of  human  companionship. 
His  utter  solitude  gave  him  a  longing  to  hear  their  voices 
and  see  their  faces ;  while  in  their  recitals  of  outrage  he 
felt  that  strange  pleasure  the  sense  of  injury  supplies  at  any 
tale  of  sorrow  and  suffering. 

At  these  meetings  the  whiskey-bottle  was  never  forgotten  ; 
and  while  some  were  under  a  pledge  not  to  take  more  than 
a  certain  quantity,  —  a  vow  they  kept  most  religiously,  — 
others  drank  deeply.  Among  these  was  Owen.  The  few 
moments  of  reckless  forgetfulness  he  then  enjoyed  were  the 
coveted  minutes  of  his  long,  dreary  da3%  and  he  wished  for 
night  to  come  as  the  last  solace  that  was  left  him. 

His  companions  knew  him  too  well  to  endeavor  by  any 
active  influence  to  implicate  him  in  their  proceedings.  They 
cunningly  left  the  work  to  time  and  his  own  gloom}"  thoughts ; 
watching,  however,  with  eager  anxiety,  how  gradually  he 
became  more  and  more  interested  in  all  their  doings ;  how 


THE  THIRD  ERA.  263 

by  degrees  he  ceased  even  the  half-remonstrance  against 
some  deed  of  unnecessary  cruelty,  and  listened  with  anima- 
tion where  before  he  but  heard  with  apathy,  if  not  repug- 
nance. The  weeds  of  evil  grow  rankest  in  the  rich  soil  of  a 
heart  whose  nature,  once  noble,  has  been  perverted  and  de- 
based. Ere  many  weeks  passed  over,  Owen,  so  far  from 
disliking  the  theme  of  violence  and  outrage,  became  half 
angry  with  his  comrades  that  they  neither  proposed  any 
undertaking  to  him,  nor  even  asked  his  assistance  amongst 
them. 

This  spirit  grew  hourly  stronger  in  him ;  offended  pride 
worked  within  his  heart  during  the  tedious  days  he  spent 
alone,  and  he  could  scarcely  refrain  from  demanding  what 
lack  of  courage  and  daring  they  saw  in  him,  that  he  should 
be  thus  forgotten  and  neglected. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  irresolute  as  to  whether  he  should 
not  propose  himself  for  some  hazardous  scheme,  or  still  re- 
main a  mere  spectator  of  others,  he  arrived  one  evening  in 
the  old  churchyard.  Of  late,  "  the  boys,"  from  preconcerted 
arrangements  among  themselves,  had  rather  made  a  show  of 
cold  and  careless  indifference  in  their  manner  to  Owen,  — 
conduct  which  deeply  wounded  him. 

As  he  approached  now  the  little  crypt,  he  perceived  that 
a  greater  number  than  usual  were  assembled  through  the 
churchyard,  and  many  were  gathered  in  little  knots  and 
groups,  talking  eagerly  together ;  a  half-nod,  a  scarcely  mut- 
tered "Good-even,"  was  all  the  salutation  he  met,  as  he 
moved  towards  the  little  cell,  where,  by  the  blaze  of  a  piece 
of  bog-pine,  a  party  were  regaling  themselves,  — the  custom 
and  privilege  of  those  who  had  been  last  out  on  any  maraud- 
ing expedition.  A  smoking  pot  of  potatoes  and  some  bottles 
of  whiskey  formed  the  entertainment,  at  w^hich  Owen  stood 
a  longing  and  famished  spectator. 

''  Will  yez  never  be  done  there  eatin'  and  crammin'  yer- 
selves?"  said  a  gruff  voice  from  the  crowd  to  the  party 
within;  ''and  ye  know  well  enough  there's  business  to  be 
done  to-night." 

"  And  ain't  we  doing  it?"  answered  one  of  the  feasters. 
''Here's  your  health,  Peter!"  and  so  saying,  he  took  a 
very  lengthened  draught  from  the  "poteen"  bottle. 


264  ST.  PATRICK'S   EVE. 

*'  'T  is  the  thrade  ye  like  best,  anyhow,"  retorted  the 
other.      "Come,  boys;  be  quick  now!" 

The  party  did  not  wait  a  second  bidding,  but  arose  from 
the  place,  and  removing  the  big  pot  to  make  more  room, 
they  prepared  the  little  cell  for  the  reception  of  some  other 
visitors. 

"That's  it  now!  We'll  not  be  long  about  it.  Larry, 
have  yez  the  'deck,'  my  boy?" 

"There's  the  book,  darlint,"  said  a  short,  little,  decrepid 
creature,  speaking  with  an  asthmatic  effort,  as  he  produced 
a  pack  of  cards,  which,  if  one  were  to  judge  from  the  dirt, 
made  the  skill  of  the  game  consist  as  much  in  deciphering  as 
playing  them. 

"Where's  Sam  M'Guire?"  called  out  the  first  speaker, 
in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be  heard  over  the  whole  space 
around  ;  and  the  name  was  repeated  from  voice  to  voice,  till 
it  was  replied  to  by  one  who  cried,  — 

"  Here,  sir ;  am  I  wanted  ?  " 

"You  are,  Sam;  and  'tis  yourself 's  always  to  the  fore 
when  we  need  yez." 

"I  hope  so,  indeed,"  said  Sam,  as  he  came  forward,  a 
flush  of  gratified  pride  on  his  hardy  cheek.  He  was  a  young, 
athletic  fellow,  with  a  fine  manly  countenance,  expressive  of 
frankness  and  candor. 

"  Luke  Heffernan  !  where  's  Luke?  "  said  the  other. 

"I'm  here  beside  ye,"  answered  a  dark-visaged,  middle- 
aged  man,  with  the  collar  of  his  frieze  coat  buttoned  high 
•on  his  face;  "ye  needn't  be  shouting  my  name  that  way, 
—  there  may  be  more  bad  than  good  among  uz." 

"There  's  not  an  informer,  any  way,  —  if  that's  what  ye 
mean,"  said  the  other,  quickly.  "  Gavan  Daly!  Call 
Gavan  Daly,  will  ye,  out  there."  And  the  words  were 
passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  in  a  minute,  but  no  one  replied 
to  the  summons. 

"  He  's  not  here, —  Gavan  's  not  here  !  "  was  the  murmured 
answer  of  the  crowd,  given  in  a  tone  that  boded  very  little 
in  favor  of  its  absent  owner. 

"Not  here!  "  said  the  leader,  as  he  crushed  the  piece  of 
paper,  from  which  he  read,  in  his  hand  ;  "  not  here?  Where 
is  he,  then  ?     Does  any  of  yez  know  where  's  Gavan  Daly  ?  " 


THE  THIRD  ERA.  265 

But  there  was  no  answer. 

"Can  nobody  tell?  —  is  he  sick?  —  or  is  any  belonging 
to  him  sick  and  dying,  that  he  is  n't  here  this  night,  as  he 
swore  to  be?" 

'^I  saw  him  wid  a  new  coat  on  him  this  morning  early 
in  Oughterarde,  and  he  said  he  was  going  to  see  a  cousin 
of  his  down  below  Oranmore,"  said  a  young  lad  from  the 
outside  of  the  crowd,  and  the  speaker  was  in  a  moment 
surrounded  by  several,  anxious  to  find  out  some  other  par- 
ticulars of  the  absent  man.  It  was  evident  that  the  boy's 
story  was  far  from  being  satisfactory,  and  the  circumstance 
of  Daly's  wearing  a  new  coat  was  one  freely  commented  on 
by  those  who  well  knew  how  thoroughly  they  were  in  the 
power  of  any  who  should  betray  them. 

"He's  in  the  black  list  this  night,"  said  the  leader,  as 
he  motioned  the  rest  to  be  silent;  "that's  w^here  I  put 
him  now  ;  and  see,  all  of  yez,  —  mind  my  words,  —  if  any  of 
uz  comes  to  harm,  it  will  go  hard  but  some  will  be  spared ; 
and  if  there  was  only  one  remaining,  he  would  n't  be  the 
cowardly  villain  not  to  see  vengeance  on  Gavan  Daly,  for 
what  he's  done." 

A  murmur  of  indignation  at  the  imputed  treachery  of  the 
absent  man  buzzed  through  the  crowd ;  while  one  fellow, 
with  a  face  flushed  by  drink,  and  eyes  bleared  and  blood- 
shot, cried  out,  — 

"And  are  ye  to  stop  h^re  all  night,  calling  for  the  boy 
that 's  gone  down  to  bethray  yez  ?  Is  there  none  of  yez  will 
take  his  place?" 

"I  will !  I  will !  I  'm  ready  and  willin' !  "  were  uttered  by 
full  twenty,  in  a  breath. 

"Who  will  ye  have  with  yez?  Take  your  own  choice!'* 
said  the  leader,  turning  towards  M'Guire  and  Heffernan, 
who  stood  whispering  eagerly  together. 

"  There's  the  boy  I'd  take  out  of  five  hundred,  av  he  was 
the  same  I  knew^  once,"  said  M'Guire,  laying  his  hand  on 
Owen's  shoulder. 

"  Begorra,  then,  I  wondher  what  3'e  seen  in  him  lately 
to  give  you  a  consate  out  of  him,"  cried  Heffernan,  with  a 
rude  laugh.  " 'T  is  n't  all  he's  done  for  the  cause  any- 
way." 


266  ST.   PATRICK'S  EVE. 

Owen  started,  and  fixed  his  eyes  first  on  one,  then  on  the 
other  of  the  speakers ;  but  his  look  was  rather  the  vacant 
stare  of  one  awakening  from  a  heavy  sleep,  than  the  expres- 
sion of  any  angry  passion,  —  for  want  and  privation  had 
gone  far  to  sap  his  spirit  as  well  as  his  bodily  strength. 

"There,  avieh,  taste  that,"  said  a  man  beside  him,  who 
was  struck  by  his  pale  and  wasted  cheek  and  miserable 
appearance. 

Owen  almost  mechanically  took  the  bottle,  and  drank 
freely,  though  the  contents  was  strong  poteen. 

"Are  ye  any  betther  now?"  said  Heffernan,  with  a  sneer- 
ing accent. 

"T  am,"  said  Owen,  calmly,  for  he  was  unconscious  of 
the  insolence  passed  off  on  him;   "I'm  a  deal  better." 

"  Come  along,  ma  bouchal !  "  cried  M'Guire  ;  "  come  into 
the  little  place  with  us  here." 

"What  do  ye  want  with  me,  boys?"  asked  Owen,  look- 
ing about  him  through  the  crowTl. 

"  'Tis  to  take  a  hand  at  the  cards,  divil  a  more,"  said  an 
old  fellow  near,  and  the  speech  sent  a  savage  laugh  among 
the  rest. 

"  I  'm  ready  and  willin',"  said  Owen  ;  "  but  sorra  farthen 
I  've  left  me  to  play ;  and  if  the  stakes  is  high  —  " 

"  Faix,  that 's  what  they  're  not,"  said  Heffernan ;  "  they  're 
the  lowest  ever  ye  played  for." 

"  Tell  me  what  it  is,  anyway,"  cried  Owen. 

"  Just  the  meanest  thing  at  all,  — the  life  of  the  blaguard 
that  turned  yerself  out  of  yer  houldin',  —  Lucas  the  agent." 

"To  kill  Lucas?" 

"That  same;  and  if  3^e  don't  like  the  game,  turn  away 
and  make  room  for  a  boy  that  has  more  spirit  in  him." 

"Who  says  I  ever  was  afeard?"  said  Owen,  on  whom 
now  the  whiskey  was  working.  "Is  it  Luke  Heffernan  dares 
to  face  me  down?  —  Come  out  here,  fair,  and  see  will  ye  say 
it  again." 

"  If  you  won't  join  the  cause,  you  must  n't  be  bringing  bad 
blood  among  us,"  cried  the  leader,  in  a  determined  tone ; 
' '  there  's  many  a  brave  boy  here  to-night  would  give  his 
right  hand  to  get  the  offer  you  did." 

"I'm  ready, — here  I  am,  ready  now,"  shouted  Owen, 


THE  THIRD  ERA.  267 

wildly;  "  tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do,  aud  see  whether 
I  will  or  no." 

A  cheer  broke  from  the  crowd  at  these  words,  and  all 
within  his  reach  stretched  out  their  hands  to  grasp  Owen's ; 
and  commendations  were  poured  on  him  from  every  side. 

Meanwhile  Heffernan  and  his  companion  had  cleared  the 
little  crypt  of  its  former  occupants,  and  having  heaped  fresh 
wood  upon  the  fire,  sat  down  before  the  blaze,  and  called  out 
for  Owen  to  join  them.  Owen  took  another  draught  from 
one  of  the  many  bottles  offered  by  the  bystanders,  and 
hastened  to  obey  the  summons. 

"  Stand  back  now,  and  don't  speak  a  word,"  cried  the 
leader,  keeping  off  the  anxious  crowd  that  pressed  eagerly 
forward  to  witness  the  game ;  the  hushed  murmuring  of  the 
voices  showing  how  deeply  interested  they  felt. 

The  three  players  bent  their  heads  forward  as  thej^  sat, 
while  Heffernan  spoke  some  words  in  a  low  whisper,  to 
which  the  others  responded  by  a  muttered  assent.  "  Well, 
here's  success  to  the  undhertakin',  anyhow,"  cried  he, 
aloud,  and  filling  out  a  glass  of  whiskey,  drank  it  off ;  then 
passing  the  liquor  to  the  two  others,  they  followed  his 
example. 

"Will  ye  like  to  deal,  Owen?"  said  M'Guire;  "you're 
the  new-comer,  and  we  '11  give  ye  the  choice." 

"No,  thank  ye,  boys,"  said  Owen;  "do  it  yerselves,  one 
of  ye;  I  'm  sure  of  fair  play." 

Heffernan  then  took  the  cards,  and,  wetting  his  thumb  for 
the  convenience  of  better  distributing  them,  slowly  laid  five 
cards  before  each  player;  he  paused  for  a  second  before  he 
turned  the  trump,  and  in  a  low  voice  said,  "If  any  man's 
faint-hearted,  let  him  say  it  now  —  " 

"Turn  the  card  round,  and  don't  be  bothering  us,"  cried 
M'Guire;  "one  'ud  think  we  never  played  a  game  before." 

"Come,  be  alive,"  said  Owen,  in  whom  the  liquor  had 
stimulated  the  passion  for  play. 

"What 's  the  thrump,  —  is  it  a  diamond?  Look  over  and 
tell  us,"  murmured  the  crowd  nearest  the  entrance. 

"'T  is  a  spade!  —  I  lay  fourpence  'tis  a  spade!  '* 

"Why  wouldn't  it  be?"  said  another;  "it's  the  same 
spade  will  dig  Lucas's  grave  this  night!  " 


268  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

*'Look!  see!"  whispered  another,  "Owen  Connor's  won 
the  first  thrick !  Watch  him  now !  Mind  the  way  he  lays 
the  card  down,  with  a  stroke  of  his  fist!  " 

"I  wish  he  wouldn't  be  drinking  so  fast!  "  said  another. 

"Who  won  that?     Who  took  that  thrick?  " 

"Ould  Heffernan,  divil  fear  him!  I  never  see  him  lose 
yet." 

"There  's  another:  that 's  Owen's!  " 

"No;  by  Jonas!  'tis  Luke  again  has  it." 

"That's  Sam  M'Guire's!  See  how  aisy  he  takes  them 
up." 

"Now  for  it,  boys!  whisht!  here's  the  last  round!  "  and 
at  this  moment  a  breathless  silence  prevailed  among  the 
crowd ;  for  while  such  as  were  nearest  were  eagerly  bent  on 
observing  the  progress  of  the  game,  the  more  distant  bent 
their  heads  to  catch  every  sound  that  might  indicate  its 
fortune. 

"See  how  Luke  grins!  watch  his  face!  "  whispered  a  low 
voice.  "He  does  n't  care  how  it  goes,  now  he  's  out  of  it!  " 
and  so  it  was.  Heffernan  had  already  won  two  of  the  five 
tricks,  and  was  safe,  whatever  the  result  of  the  last  one. 
The  trial  lay  between  M'Guire  and  Owen. 

"Come,  Owen,  my  hearty!"  said  M'Guire,  as  he  held  a 
card  ready  to  play,  "you  or  I  for  it  now;  we'll  soon  see 
which  the  devil 's  fondest  of.  There  's  the  two  of  clubs 
for  ye ! " 

"There  's  the  three,  then!  "  said  Owen,  with  a  crash  of  his 
hand,  as  he  placed  the  card  over  the  others. 

"And  there  's  the  four!  "  said  Heffernan,  "and  the  thrick 
is  Sam  M'Guire's." 

"Owen  Connor  's  lost!  "  "Owen  's  lost!  "  murmured  the 
crowd;  and,  whether  in  half-compassion  for  his  defeat,  or 
grief  that  so  hazardous  a  deed  should  be  intrusted  to  a 
doubtful  hand,  the  sensation  created  was  evidently  of  gloom 
and  dissatisfaction. 

"You  've  a  right  to  take  either  of  us  wid  ye,  Owen,"  said 
M'Guire,  slapping  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Luke  or  myself 
must  go,  if  ye  want  us." 

"No;  I'll  do  it  myself,"  said  Owen,  in  a  low  hollow 
voice. 


THE  THIRD  ERA. 


269 


"There  's  the  tool,  then!  "  said  Heffernan,  producing  from 
the  breast  of  his  frieze  coat  a  long  horse-pistol,  the  stock 
of  which  was  mended  by  a  clasp  of  iron  belted  round  it; 


7^^lM^^^-. 


"and  if  it  doesn't  do  its  work,  'tis  the  first  time  it  ever 
failed.  Ould  Miles  Cregan,  of  Gurtane,  was  the  last  that 
heard  it  spake." 

Owen  took  the  weapon,  and  examined  it  leisurely,  open- 


270  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

ing  the  pan  and  settling  the  priming,  with  a  finger  that 
never  trembled.  As  he  drew  forth  the  ramrod  to  try  the 
barrel,  Heffernan  said,  with  a  half-grin,  "There 's  two 
bullets  in  it,  avich!  —  enough  's  as  good  as  a  feast." 

Owen  sat  still  and  spoke  not,  while  the  leader  and  Heffer- 
nan explained  to  him  the  circumstances  of  the  plot  against 
the  life  of  Mr.  Lucas.  Information  had  been  obtained  by 
some  of  the  party  that  the  agent  would  leave  Galway  on  the 
following  evening,  on  his  way  to  Westport,  passing  through 
Oughterarde  and  their  own  village  about  midnight.  He 
usually  travelled  in  his  gig,  with  relays  of  horses  ready  at 
different  stations  of  the  way,  one  of  which  was  about  two 
miles  distant  from  the  old  ruin,  on  the  edge  of  the  lake, 

—  a  wild  and  dreary  spot,  where  stood  a  solitary  cabin,  in- 
habited by  a  poor  man  who  earned  his  livelihood  by  fishing. 
No  other  house  was  within  a  mile  of  this ;  and  here  it  was 
determined,  while  in  the  act  of  changing  horses,  the  murder 
should  be  effected.  The  bleak  common  beside  the  lake  was 
studded  with  furze  and  brambles,  beneath  which  it  was  easy 
to  obtain  shelter,  though  pursuit  was  not  to  be  apprehended, 

—  at  least,  they  judged  that  the  servant  would  not  venture 
to  leave  his  master  at  such  a  moment ;  and  as  for  the  fisher- 
man, although  not  a  sworn  member  of  their  party,  they  well 
knew  he  would  not  dare  to  inform  against  the  meanest 
amongst  them. 

Owen  listened  attentively  to  all  these  details,  and  the 
accurate  directions  by  which  they  instructed  him  on  every 
step  he  should  take.  From  the  moment  he  should  set  foot 
within  the  cover  to  the  very  instant  of  firing,  each  little 
event  had  its  warning. 

"Mind!  "  repeated  Heffernan,  with  a  slow,  distinct  whis- 
per, "he  never  goes  into  the  house  at  all;  but  if  the  night 's 
cowld, —  as  it 's  sure  to  be  this  sayson, —  he  '11  be  moving  up 
and  down  to  keep  his  feet  warm.  Cover  him  as  he  turns 
round;  but  don't  fire  the  first  cover,  but  wait  till  he  comes 
back  to  the  same  place  again,  and  then  blaze.  Don't  stir 
then,  till  ye  see  if  he  falls ;  if  he  does,  be  off  down  the  com- 
mon; but  if  he  's  only  wounded  —  but  sure  ye  '11  do  better 
than  that ! " 

"1  '11  go  bail  he  will!  "  said  M'Guire.     "Sorra  fear  that 


THE  THIRD  ERA.  271 

Owen  Connor's  heart  would  fail  him!  and  sure  if  be  likes 
me  to  be  wid  him  —  " 

"No,  no!  "  said  Owen,  in  the  same  hollow  voice  as 
before,  "I  '11  do  it  all  by  myself;  I  want  nobody." 

"  'T  is  the  very  words  I  said  when  I  shot  Lambert  of  Kil- 
elunah,"  said  M'Guire.  "I  didn't  know  him  by  looks, 
and  the  bo^^s  wanted  me  to  take  some  one  to  point  him  out. 
*  Sorra  bit! '  says  I,  '  leave  that  to  me; '  and  so  I  waited  in 
the  gripe  of  the  ditch  all  day,  till,  about  four  in  the  evening, 
I  seen  a  stout  man  wid  a  white  hat  coming  across  the  fields, 
to  where  the  men  was  planting  potatoes.  So  I  ups  to  him 
wid  a  letter  in  my  hand,  this  way,  and  my  hat  off.  *  Is  yer 
honner  Mr.  Lambert  ?  '  says  I.  '  Yes, '  says  he ;  '  what  do 
ye  want  with  me?  '  '  'T  is  a  bit  of  a  note  I  've  for  yer 
honner,'  says  I;  and  I  gav  him  the  paper.  He  tuck  it  and 
opened  it;  but,  troth,  it  was  little  matter  there  was  no 
writin'  in  it,  for  he  would  n't  have  lived  to  read  it  through. 
I  sent  the  ball  through  his  heart,  as  near  as  I  stand  to  ye; 
the  wadding  was  burning  his  waistcoat  when  I  left  him. 
'  God  save  you ! '  saj's  the  men,  as  I  went  across  the  potato- 
field.  '  Save  you  kindly !  '  says  I.  '  Was  that  a  shot  we 
heard?'  says  another.  'Yes,'  says  I;  'I  was  fright'ning 
the  crows;  '  and  sorra  bit,  but  that's  a  saying  they  have 
against  me  ever  since."  These  last  few  words  were  said 
in  a  simper  of  modesty,  which,  whether  real  or  affected, 
was  a  strange  sentiment  at  the  conclusion  of  such  a  tale. 

The  party  soon  after  separated,  not  to  meet  again  for 
several  nights;  for  the  news  of  Lucas's  death  would,  of 
course,  be  the  signal  for  a  general  search  through  the  coun- 
try, and  the  most  active  measures  to  trace  the  murderer. 
It  behoved  them,  then,  to  be  more  than  usually  careful  not 
to  be  absent  from  their  homes  and  their  daily  duties  for 
some  days,  at  least;  after  which  they  could  assemble  in 
safety  as  before. 

Grief  has  been  known  to  change  the  hair  to  gray  in  a  sin- 
gle night;  the  announcement  of  a  sudden  misfortune  has 
palsied  the  hand  that  held  the  ill-omened  letter;  but  I  ques- 
tion if  the  hours  that  are  passed  before  the  commission  of  a 
great  crime,  planned  and  meditated  beforehand,  do  not  work 
more  fearful  devastation  on  the  human  heart  than  all  the 


272  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

sorrows  that  ever  crushed  humanity.  Ere  night  came,  Owen 
Connor  seemed  to  have  grown  years  older.  In  the  tortured 
doubtings  of  his  harassed  mind  he  appeared  to  have  spent 
almost  a  lifetime  since  the  sun  last  rose.  He  had  passed 
in  review  before  him  each  phase  of  his  former  existence, 
from  childhood  —  free,  careless,  and  happy  childhood  —  to 
days  of  boyish  sport  and  revelry ;  then  came  the  period  of 
his  first  manhood,  with  its  new  ambitions  and  hopes.  He 
thought  of  these,  and  how,  amid  the  humble  circumstances 
of  his  lowly  fortune,  he  was  happy.  What  would  he  have 
thought  of  him  who  should  predict  such  a  future  as  this  for 
him?  How  could  he  have  believed  it?  And  yet  the  worst 
of  all  remained  to  come.  He  tried  to  rally  his  courage  and 
steel  his  heart,  by  repeating  over  the  phrases  so  frequent 
among  his  companions.  "Sure,  ain't  I  driven  to  it?  Is  it 
my  fault  if  I  take  to  this,  or  theirs  that  compelled  me?  "  and 
such  like.  But  these  words  came  with  no  persuasive  force 
in  the  still  hour  of  conscience;  they  were  only  effectual  amid 
the  excitement  and  tumult  of  a  multitude,  when  men's  pas- 
sions were  high,  and  their  resolutions  daring.  "It  is  too 
late  to  go  back,"  muttered  he,  as  he  arose  from  the  spot, 
where,  awaiting  nightfall,  he  had  lain  hid  for  several  hours; 
"the}^  mustn't  call  me  a  coward,  anywa3\" 

As  Owen  reached  the  valley,  the  darkness  spread  far  and 
near;  not  a  star  could  be  seen ;  great  masses  of  cloud  covered 
the  sky,  and  hung  down  heavily,  midway  upon  the  moun- 
tains. There  was  no  rain ;  but  on  the  wind  came  from  time 
to  time  a  drifted  mist,  which  showed  that  the  air  was  charged 
with  moisture.  The  ground  was  still  wet  and  plashy  from 
recent  heavy  rain.  It  was,  indeed,  a  cheerless  night  and 
a  cheerless  hour;  but  not  more  so  than  the  heart  of  him 
who  now,  bent  upon  his  deadly  purpose,  moved  slowly  on 
towards  the  common. 

On  descending  towards  the  lake-side,  he  caught  a  passing 
view  of  the  little  village,  where  a  few  lights  yet  twinkled, 
and  flickering  stars  that  shone  within  some  humble  home. 
What  would  he  not  have  given  to  be  but  the  meanest  peas- 
ant there,  the  poorest  creature  that  toiled  and  sickened  on 
his  dreary  way!  He  turned  away  hurriedly,  and  with  his 
hand  pressed  heavily  on  his  swelling  heart  walked  rapidly 


THE   THIRD  ERA. 


273 


on.  ''It  will  soon  be  over  now,"  said  Owen;  he  was  about 
to  add,  with  the  accustomed  piety  of  his  class,  "thank  Ciod 
for  it,"  but  the  words  stopped  in  his  throat,  and  the  dreadful 


thought  flashed  on  him,  "Is  it  when  I  am  about  to  shed  His 
creature's  blood,  I  should  say  this?" 

He  sat  down  upon  a  large  stone  beside  the  lake,  at  a  spot 
where  the  road  came  down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  where 
none  could  pass  unobserved  by  him.  He  had  often  fished 
from  that  very  rock  when  a  boy,  and  eaten  his  little  dinner 

VOL.    11.  —  18 


274  ST.   PATRICK'S  EVE. 

of  potatoes  beneath  its  shelter.  Here  he  sat  once  more, 
saying  to  himself,  as  he  did  so,  "  'T  is  an  ould  friend,  any- 
way, and  I  '11  just  spend  my  last  night  with  him;  "  for  so  in 
his  mind  he  already  regarded  his  condition.  The  murder 
effected,  he  determined  to  make  no  effort  to  escape.  Life 
was  of  no  value  to  him.  The  snares  of  the  conspiracy  had 
entangled  him,  but  his  heart  was  not  in  it. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  the  clouds  lifted,  and  the  wind, 
increasing  to  a  storm,  bore  them  hurriedly  through  the  air; 
the  waters  of  the  lake,  lashed  into  waves,  beat  heavily  on 
the  low  shore;  while  the  howling  blast  swept  through  the 
mountain-passes  and  over  the  bleak  wide  plain  with  a 
rushing  sound.  The  thin  crescent  of  a  new  moon  could  be 
seen  from  time  to  time  as  the  clouds  rolled  past;  too  faint 
to  shed  any  light  upon  the  earth,  it  merely  gave  form  to  the 
dark  masses  that  moved  before  it. 

''I  will  do  it  here,"  said  Owen,  as  he  stood  and  looked 
upon  the  dark  water  that  beat  against  the  foot  of  the  rock, 
—  "here,  on  this  spot." 

He  sat  for  some  moments  with  his  ear  bent  to  listen,  but 
the  storm  was  loud  enough  to  make  all  other  sounds  in- 
audible; yet,  in  every  noise  he  thought  he  heard  the  sound 
of  wheels,  and  the  rapid  tramp  of  a  horse's  feet.  The 
motionless  attitude,  the  cold  of  the  night,  but,  more  than 
either,  the  debility  brought  on  by  long  fasting  and  hunger, 
benumbed  his  limbs,  so  that  he  felt  almost  unable  to  make 
the  least  exertion,  should  any  such  be  called  for. 

He  therefore  descended  from  the  rock  and  moved  along 
the  road ;  at  first,  only  thinking  of  restoring  lost  animation 
to  his  frame,  but  at  length,  in  a  half  unconsciousness,  he 
had  wandered  upwards  of  two  miles  beyond  the  little  hovel 
where  the  change  of  horses  was  to  take  place.  Just  as  he 
was  on  the  point  of  returning,  he  perceived,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, in  front,  the  walls  of  a  now  ruined  cabin,  once  the 
home  of  the  old  smith.  Part  of  the  roof  had  fallen  in,  the 
doors  and  windows  were  gone,  the  fragment  of  an  old  shutter 
alone  remained,  and  this  banged  heavily  back  and  forwards 
as  the  storm  rushed  through  the  wretched  hut. 

Almost  without  knowing  it,  Owen  entered  the  cabin,  and 
sat  down  beside  the  spot  where  once  the  forge-fire  used  to 


THE   THIRD  ERA.  275 

burn.  He  had  been  there,  too,  when  a  boy,  many  a  time ; 
many  a  story  had  he  Hstened  to  in  that  same  corner;  but 
why  think  of  this  now  ?  The  cold  blast  seemed  to  freeze  his 
very  blood;  he  felt  his  heart  as  if  congealed  within  him. 
He  sat  cowering  from  the  piercing  blast  for  some  time;  and 
at  last  unable  to  bear  the  sensation  longer,  determined  to 
kindle  a  fire  with  the  fragments  of  the  old  shutter.  For  this 
purpose  he  drew  the  charge  of  the  pistol,  in  which  there 
were  three  bullets,  and  not  merely  two,  as  Heffernan  had 
told  him.  Laying  these  carefully  down  in  his  handkerchief, 
he  kindled  a  light  with  some  powder,  and  with  the  dexterity 
of  one  not  unaccustomed  to  such  operations,  soon  saw  the 
dry  sticks  blazing  on  the  hearth.  On  looking  about  he  dis- 
covered a  few  sods  of  turf  and  some  dry  furze,  with  which 
he  replenished  his  fire,  till  it  gradually  became  a  warm  and 
cheering  blaze.  Owen  now  reloaded  the  pistol,  just  as  he 
had  found  it.  There  was  a  sense  of  duty  in  his  mind  to 
follow  out  every  instruction  he  received,  and  deviate  m 
nothing.  This  done,  he  held  his  numbed  fingers  over  the 
blaze,  and  bared  his  chest  to  the  warm  glow  of  the  fire. 

The  sudden  change  from  the  cold  night-air  to  the  warmtb 
of  the  cabin  soon  made  him  drowsy.  Fatigue  and  watching 
aiding  the  inclination  to  sleep,  he  was  obliged  to  move 
about  the  hut,  and  even  expose  himself  to  the  chill  blast,  to 
resist  its  influence.  The  very  purpose  on  which  he  was 
bent,  so  far  from  dispelling  sleep,  rather  induced  its  ap- 
proach; for,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  concentration  with 
which  the  mind  brings  its  power  to  bear  on  any  object  will 
overcome  all  the  interest  and  anxiety  of  our  natures,  and 
bring  on  sleep  from  very  weariness. 

He  slept,  at  first,  calmly  and  peacefully,  —  exhaustion 
would  have  its  debt  acquitted,  —  and  he  breathed  as  softly 
as  an  infant.  At  last,  when  the  extreme  of  fatigue  was 
passed,  his  brain  began  to  busy  itself  with  flitting  thoughts 
and  fancies,  —  some  long-forgotten  da}'  of  boyhood,  some 
little  scene  of  childish  gayety,  flashed  across  him,  and  he 
dreamed  of  the  old  mountain-lake,  where  so  often  he 
watched  the  wide  circles  of  the  leaping  trout,  or  tracked 
with  his  eye  the  foamy  path  of  the  wild  water-hen,  as  she 
skimmed  the  surface.     Then  suddenly  his  chest  heaved  and 


276  ST.  PATKICK'S  EVE. 

fell  with  a  strong  motion,  for  with  lightning's  speed  the 
current  of  his  thoughts  was  changed ;  his  heart  was  in  the 
mad  tumult  of  a  faction-fight,  loud  shouts  were  ringing  in 
his  ears,  the  crash  of  sticks,  the  cries  of  pain,  entreaties  for 
mercy,  execrations  and  threats,  rung  around  him,  when  one 
figure  moved  slowl}^  before  his  astonished  gaze,  with  a  sweet 
.emile  upon  her  lips,  and  love  in  her  long-lashed  eyes.  She 
murmured  his  name;  and  now  he  slept  with  a  low-drawn 
breath,  his  quivering  lips  repeating,  "  Mary !  " 

Another  and  a  sadder  change  was  coming.  He  was  on  the 
mountains,  in  the  midst  of  a  large  assemblage  of  wild- 
looking  and  haggard  men,  whose  violent  speech  and  savage 
gestures  well  suited  their  reckless  air.  A  loud  shout  wel- 
comed him  as  he  came  amongst  them,  and  a  cry  of  "Here  's 
Owen  Connor,  —  Owen  at  last!  "  and  a  hundred  hands  were 
stretched  out  to  grasp  his,  but  as  suddenly  withdrawn,  on 
seeing  that  his  hands  were  not  blood-stained  nor  gory. 

He  shuddered  as  he  looked  upon  their  dripping  fingers; 
but  he  shuddered  still  more  as  they  called  him  "Coward!" 
What  he  said  he  knew  not;  but  in  a  moment  they  were  gath- 
ered round  him,  and  clasping  him  in  their  arms ;  and  now 
iiis  hands,  his  cheeks,  his  clothes  were  streaked  with  blood ; 
he  tried  to  wipe  the  foul  stains  out,  but  his  fingers  grew 
clotted,  and  his  feet  seemed  to  plash  in  the  red  stream,  and 
his  savage  comrades  laughed  fiercely  at  his  efforts,  and 
mocked  him. 

"What  am  I  that  you  should  clasp  me  thus?"  he  cried; 
and  a  voice  from  his  inmost  heart  replied,  "A  murderer!" 
The  cold  sweat  rolled  in  great  drops  down  his  brow,  while 
the  foam  of  agony  dewed  his  pallid  lips,  and  his  frame 
trembled  in  a  terrible  convulsion.  Confused  and  fearful 
images  of  bloodshed  and  its  penalty,  the  crime  and  the 
scaffold,  commingled,  worked  in  his  maddened  brain.  He 
heard  the  rush  of  feet,  as  if  thousands  were  hurrying  on  to 
see  him  die,  and  voices  that  swelled  like  the  sea  at  mid- 
night. Nor  was  the  vision  all  unreal ;  for  already  two  men 
had  entered  the  hut. 

The  dreadful  torture  of  his  thoughts  had  now  reached  its 
climax,  and  with  a  bound  Owen  sprang  from  his  sleep,  and 
cried  in  a  shriek  of  heart- wrung  anguish,  "No,  never, — I 


THE  THIRD  ERA.  277 

am  not  a  murderer.  Owen  Connor  can  meet  his  death  like 
a  man,  but  not  with  blood  upon  him." 

"Owen  Connor!  Owen  Connor,  did  you  say?"  repeated 
one  of  the  two  who  stood  before  him;  "are  you,  then,  Owen 
Connor  ? " 

''I  am,"  replied  Owen,  whose  dreams  were  still  the  last 
impression  on  his  mind.  "I  give  myself  up;  —  do  what  ye 
will  with  me;  —  hang,  imprison,  or  transport  me;  I  '11  never 
gainsay  you." 

"Owen,  do  you  not  know  me?"  said  the  other,  removing 
his  travelling-cap,  and  brushing  back  the  hair  from  his 
forehead. 

"No,  I  know  nothing  of  you,"  said  he,  fiercely. 

"Not  remember  your  old  friend,  — your  landlord's  son, 
Owen?" 

Owen  stared  at  him  without  speaking;  his  parted  lips  and 
fixed  gaze  evidencing  the  amazement  which  came  over 
him. 

"You  saved  my  life,  Owen,"  said  the  young  man,  horror- 
struck  by  the  withered  and  wasted  form  of  the  peasant. 

"And  you  have  made  me  this,"  muttered  Owen,  as  he  let 
fall  the  pistol  from  his  bosom.  "Yes,"  cried  he,  with  an 
energy  very  different  from  before,  "I  came  out  this  night, 
sworn  to  murder  that  man  beside  you,  —  your  agent,  Lucas ; 
my  soul  is  perjured  if  my  hands  are  not  bloody." 

Lucas  instantly  took  a  pistol  from  the  breast  of  his  coat, 
and  cocked  it;  while  the  ghastly  whiteness  of  his  cheek 
showed  he  did  not  think  the  danger  was  yet  over. 

"Put  up  your  weapon,"  said  Owen,  contemptuously. 
"What  would  I  care  for  it  if  I  wanted  to  take  your  life? 
Do  you  think  the  likes  of  me  has  any  hould  on  the  world? " 
and  he  laughed  a  scornful  and  bitter  laugh. 

"How  is  this,  then?"  cried  Leslie;  "is  murder  so  light  a 
crime  that  a  man  like  this  does  not  shrink  from  it?" 

"The  country,"  whispered  Lucas,  "is,  indeed,  in  a  fear- 
ful state.  The  rights  of  property  no  longer  exist  among  us. 
That  fellow  —  because  he  lost  his  farm  —  " 

"Stop,  sir!"  cried  Owen,  fiercely;  "I  will  deny  nothing 
of  my  guilt,  —  but  lay  not  more  to  my  charge  than  is  true. 
Want  and  misery  have  brought  me  low,  —  destitution  and 


278  ST.  PATKICK'S  EVE. 

recklessness  still  lower ;  but  if  I  swore  to  have  your  life  this 
night,  it  was  not  for  any  vengeance  of  my  own." 

"  Ha !  then  there  is  a  conspiracy !  "  cried  Lucas,  hastily. 
"We  must  have  it  out  of  you  —  every  word  of  it  —  or  it  will 
go  harder  with  yourself. " 

Owen's  only  reply  was  a  bitter  laugh;  and  from  that 
moment  he  never  uttered  another  word.  All  Lucas's 
threats,  all  Leslie's  entreaties  were  powerless  and  vain.  The 
very  allusion  to  becoming  an  informer  was  too  revolting  to 
be  forgiven,  and  he  firmly  resolved  to  brave  any  and  every 
thing  rather  than  endure  the  mere  proposal. 

They  returned  to  Galway  as  soon  as  the  post-boys  had  suc- 
ceeded in  repairing  the  accidental  breakage  of  the  harness, 
which  led  to  the  opportune  appearance  of  the  landlord  and 
his  agent  in  the  hut;  Owen  accompanying  them  without  a 
word  or  a  gesture. 

So  long  as  Lucas  was  present,  Owen  never  opened  his  lips ; 
the  dread  of  committing  himself,  or  in  any  way  implicating 
one  amongst  his  companions,  deterred  him ;  but  when  Leslie 
sent  for  him,  alone,  and  asked  him  the  circumstances  which 
led  him  to  the  eve  of  so  great  a  crime,  he  confessed  all,  — 
omitting  nothing,  save  such  passages  as  might  involve 
others,  —  and  even  to  Leslie  he  was  guarded  on  this  topic. 

The  young  landlord  listened  with  astonishment  and  sorrow 
to  the  peasant's  story.  Never  till  now  did  he  conceive  the 
mischiefs  neglect  and  abandonment  can  propagate,  nor  of 
how  many  sins  mere  poverty  can  be  the  parent.  He  knew 
not  before  that  the  very  endurance  of  want  can  teach  an- 
other endurance,  and  make  men  hardened  against  the  terrors 
of  the  law  and  its  inflictions.  He  was  not  aware  of  the  con- 
dition of  his  tenantry;  he  wished  them  all  well  off  and 
happy;  he  had  no  self-accusings  of  a  grudging  nature, 
nor  an  oppressive  disposition,  and  he  absolved  himself  of 
any  hardships  that  originated  with  "the  agent." 

The  cases  brought  before  his  notice  rather  disposed  him 
to  regard  the  people  as  wily  and  treacherous,  false  in  their 
pledges  and  unmindful  of  favors;  and  many,  doubtless, 
were  so;  but  he  never  inquired  how  far  their  experience 
had  taught  them  that  dishonesty  was  the  best  policy,  and 
that  trick  and  subtlety  are  the  only  aids  to  the  poor  man. 


THE  THIRD   ERA.  279 

He  forgot,  above  all,  that  they  bad  iieitber  examples  to 
look  up  to  nor  imitate,  and  that  when  once  a  people  have 
become  sunk  in  misery,  they  are  the  ready  tools  of  any 
wicked  enough  to  use  them  for  violence,  and  false  enough 
to  persuade  them  that  outrage  can  be  their  welfare;  and, 
lastly,  he  overlooked  the  great  fact  that  in  a  corrupt  and 
debased  social  condition  the  evils  which  under  other  cir- 
cumstances would  be  borne  with  a  patient  trust  in  future 
relief,  are  resented  in  a  spirit  of  recklessness ;  and  that  men 
soon  cease  to  shudder  at  a  crime  when  frequency  has  accus- 
tomed them  to  discuss  its  details. 

I  must  not  —  I  dare  not  dwell  longer  on  this  theme. 
Leslie  felt  all  the  accusations  of  an  awakened  conscience. 
He  saw  himself  the  origin  of  many  misfortunes,  —  of  evils 
of  whose  very  existence  he  never  heard  before.  Ere  Owen 
concluded  his  sad  story,  his  mind  was  opened  to  some  of 
the  miseries  of  Ireland ;  and  when  he  had  ended  he  cried : 
*'I  will  live  at  home  with  ye,  amongst  ye  all,  Owen!  I 
will  try  if  Irishmen  cannot  learn  to  know  who  is  their  true 
friend;  and  while  repairing  some  of  my  own  faults,  may- 
hap I  may  remedy  some  of  theirs." 

"Oh!  why  did  you  not  do  this  before  I  came  to  my  ruin?  " 
cried  Owen,  in  a  passionate  burst  of  grief;  for  the  poor 
fellow  all  along  had  given  himself  up  for  lost,  and  imagined 
that  his  own  plea  of  guilt  must  bring  him  to  the  gallows. 
Nor  was  it  till  after  much  persuasion  and  great  trouble 
that  Leslie  could  reconcile  him  to  himself,  and  assure  him 
that  his  own  fortunate  repentance  had  saved  him  from 
destruction. 

"You  shall  go  back  to  j^our  mountain-cabin,  Owen;  you 
shall  have  your  own  farm  again,  and  be  as  happy  as  ever," 
said  the  young  man.  "The  law  must  deal  with  those  who 
break  it,  and  no  one  will  go  farther  than  myself  to  vindicate 
the  law;  but  I  will  also  try  if  kindness  and  fair  dealing  will 
not  save  many  from  the  promptings  of  their  own  hearts,  and 
teach  men  that,  even  here,  the  breach  of  God's  command- 
ments can  bring  neither  peace  nor  happiness." 

My  object  in  this  little  story  being  to  trace  the  career  of 
one  humble  man  through  the  trials  and  temptations  inci- 
dent to  his  lot  in  life,  I  must  not  dwell  upon  the  wider  theme 


280  ST.   PATiaCK'S   EVE. 

of  national  distiubance.  I  have  endeavored  —  Iion^  weaklv, 
J  am  well  aware  —  to  siiow  that  soeial  disorganizati«)M, 
rather  than  political  «j;rievaMees,  are  the  source  of  Jrish 
outrage;  that  neglect  and  abandonment  of  the  people  on  the 
part  of  those  who  stood  in  the  position  of  friends  and  advis- 
ers towards  them,  have  disseminated  evils  deepei-  and  greater 
than  even  a  tyranny  could  have  engendered.  lUit  for  this 
desertion  of  their  tUilies,  there  had  been  no  loss  of  their 
rightful  inlUience,  nor  would  the  foul  crime  of  assassination 
now  stain  the  name  of  our  land.  Willi  an  educated  and  resi- 
dent proprietary,  Ir«l:iiid  could  never  have  become  what  she 
now  is;  personal  eoint'oit,  if  no  higher  motive  could  be 
api)ealed  to,  would  have  necessitated  a  watchful  observance 
of  the  habits  of  the  people,  —  the  tares  would  iiave  been 
weeded  from  the  wheat;  thei'vil  intlueiKH' of  bad  men  would 
not  have  been  suftered  to  spicnd  its  coutagiou  tlir«)uuh  the 
land. 

J>et  me  not  be  supposed  for  a  moment  as  joining  in  the 
I)opular  cry  against  the  landlords  of  Ireland.  As  regards 
the  management  of  llirir  esiatrs,  aud  tlir  liberality  of  their 
dealings  with  tln-ir  tfiianlry,  they  are,  of  course,  with  the 
exce[)tions  which  evtiy  count ly  exhibits,  a  class  as  blame- 
less and  irrei^roachable  as  can  be  found  anywhere,  —  their 
real  dereliction  being,  in  my  mind,  their  desertion  of  tla^ 
people.  To  this  cause,  I  believe,  can  be  traced  every  one 
of  the  long  catalogue  n\'  disasters  to  which  Ireland  is  a 
I)rey;  the  despaiiing  poverty,  reckless  habits,  indilT<*rence 
to  the  mandates  of  \\\r  law,  have  their  source  here.  The 
impassioned  pui-suit  of  any  political  privilege,  which  they 
are  given  to  suppose  will  alleviate  the  evils  of  their  state, 
has  thrown  them  into  tin'  hands  of  the  tlemagogue,  and 
banded  them  in  a  leagiu'  which  they  assume  to  be  national. 
You  left  them  to  drift  on  the  waters,  and  you  may  now  be 
shij)wrecked  atnong  the  lloating  fragments! 

My  tale  is  ended.  I  have  only  one  record  more  to  add. 
The  exercise  of  the  law,  assisted  by  the  energy  and  deter- 
mination of  a  fearless  and  resident  landlord,  at  length 
suppressed  outrnge  and  banishetl  those  who  had  been  its 
(uiginators.  Through  the  evidence  of  Cialvan  Daly,  whose 
treachery  had  been  alreaily  suspected,  several  of  the  leaders 


THE   THIRD   ERA. 


281 


were  foui*»l  guilty,   and  met  the  dreadful  penalty  of  their 
crimes.    The  fact  of  an  informer  havinsr  been  found  amongst 


long  before  either  peace  or  happiness  shed  their  true  bless- 
ings on  that  land:  mutual  distrust,  the  memory  of  some  lost 


282  ST.  PATRICK'S  EVE. 

friend,  and  the  sad  conviction  of  their  own  iniquity  dark- 
ened many  a  day,  and  made  even  a  gloomier  depth  than 
they  had  ever  known  in  their  poverty. 

There  came,  however,  a  reverse  for  this.  It  was  a  fine 
day  in  spring:  the  mountain  and  the  lake  were  bright  in 
the  sunshine;  the  valley,  rich  in  the  promise  of  the  coming 
year,  was  already  green  with  the  young  wheat;  the  pleasant 
sounds  of  happy  labor  rose  from  the  fields  fresh-turned  by 
the  plough;  the  blue  smoke  curled  into  thin  air  from  many 
a  cabin,  no  longer  mean-looking  and  miserable  as  before, 
but  with  signs  of  comfort  around,  in  the  trim  hedge  of  the 
little  garden  and  the  white  walls  that  glistened  in  the  sun. 

Towards  the  great  mountain  above  the  lake,  however,  many 
an  eye  was  turned  from  afar,  and  many  a  peasant  lingered 
to  gaze  upon  the  scene  which  now  marked  its  rugged  face. 

Along  the  winding  path  which  traced  its  zigzag  course 
from  the  lake-side  to  the  little  glen  where  Owen's  cabin 
stood,  a  vast  procession  could  be  seen  moving  on  foot  and 
on  horseback.  Some  in  country  cars,  assisted  up  the  steep 
ascent  by  men's  strong  shoulders;  others  mounted  in  twos 
and  threes  upon  some  slow-footed  beast;  but  the  greater 
number  walking  or  rather  clambering  their  way, —  for  in  their 
eagerness  to  get  forward,  they  each  moment  deserted  the 
path  to  breast  the  ferny  mountain-side.  The  scarlet  cloaks 
of  the  women,  as  they  fluttered  in  the  wind,  and  their  white 
caps,  gave  a  brilliancy  to  the  picture  which,  as  the  masses 
emerged  from  the  depth  of  some  little  dell  and  disappeared 
again,  had  all  the  semblance  of  some  gorgeous  panorama. 
Nor  was  the  eye  the  only  sense  gladdened  by  the  spectacle; 
for  even  in  the  valley  could  be  heard  the  clear  ringing  laugh- 
ter as  they  went  along,  and  the  wild  cheer  of  merriment  that 
ever  and  anon  burst  forth  from  happy  hearts,  while,  high 
above  all,  the  pleasant  sounds  of  the  bagpipe  rose,  as, 
seated  upon  an  ass,  and  intrusted  to  the  guidance  of  a  bo}', 
the  musician  moved  along,  his  inspiriting  strains  taken 
advantage  of  at  every  spot  of  level  ground  by  some  merry 
souls  who  would  not  "lose  so  much  good  music." 

As  the  head  of  the  dense  column  wound  its  way  upward, 
one  little  group  could  be  seen  by  thoso  below,  and  were 
saluted  by  many  a  cheer  and  the  waving  of  handkerchiefs. 


THE  THIRD  ERA.  283 

These  were  a  party  whose  horses  and  gear  seemed  far  better 
than  the  rest;  and  among  them  rode  a  gentleman  mounted 
on  a  strong  pony,  —  his  chief  care  was  bestowed  less  on 
his  own  beast  than  in  guiding  that  of  a  young  country  girl 
who  rode  beside  him.  She  was  enveloped  in  a  long  blue 
cloak  of  dark  cloth,  beneath  which  she  wore  a  white  dress ; 
a  white  ribbon  floated  through  her  dark  hair  too ;  but  in  her 
features  and  the  happy  smile  upon  her  lip,  the  bride  was 
written  more  palpably  than  in  all  these. 

High  above  her  head,  upon  a  pinnacle  of  rock,  a  man 
stood  gazing  at  the  scene;  at  his  side  a  little  child  of  some 
four  or  five  years  old,  whose  frantic  glee  seemed  perilous  in 
such  a  place,  while  his  wild  accents  drew  many  an  upward 
glance  from  those  below,  as  he  cried,  — 

*'See,  Nony,  see!     Mary  is  coming  to  us  at  last!  '* 
This,  too,  was  a  "St.  Patrick's  Eve,"  and  a  happy  one. 
May  Ireland  see  many  such! 


THE  END 


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Sept  23  1912       Crosby 


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1930^6 


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